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17 TO 27 VANDEV/>TEf\ St 
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Tlie ”a 8 id^!ibrar^Yocke^EditionTlssuedTri^^ee^! 7 T^y"subrscription $36 per annum. 
jTislited 1885. by Qeorae Munro— Entered at the Eoat OCftce at New York at second class rates -M’ch. 4. 1885, 


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MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 


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THE SEASIDE LIBRAEY.-POOKET EDmON. 


wo. PEICE. 

1 Tolande. By William Black 20 

2 Molly Bawn. By The Duchess . 20 
8 The Mill on the Floss. By George Eliot 20 

4 Under Two Flags. By‘‘Ouida” 2C 

5 Admiral’s Ward. By Mrs. Alexander.. 20 

6 Portia. By “ The Duchess ” 20 

7 File No. li3. By Emile Gaboriau 20 

8 East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry Wood. . . . 20 

9 Wanda. By “ Ouida 20 

10 The Old Curiosity Shop. By Diclteus. 20 

11 John Halifax, Gentleman. MissMulock 20 

12 Other People's Money. By Gaboriau. 20 

13 Eyre’s Acquittal. By Helen B. Mathers 10 

14 Airy Fairy Lilian. By “ The Duchess ” 10 

15 Jane Eyre. By Charlotte Bront6 20 

16 Phyllis. By “ The Duchess ” 20 

17 The Wooing O’t. By Mrs. Alexander,, 15 

18 Shandon Bells. By William Black.... 20 

19 Her Mother’s Sin. By the Author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

20 Within an Inch of His Life. By Emile 

Gaboriau 20 

21 Sunrise. By William Black 20 

22 David Copperfleld. Dickens. Vol. I.. 20 

22 David Copperfieid. Dickens. Yol. II. 20 

23 A Princess of Thule. By William Black 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. Dickens. Vol. I... 20 
24 Pickwick Papers. Dickens. Vol. II.. 20 
^ Mrs. Geoffrey. By “ The Duchess ”... 20 
^ Monsieur Lecoq. By Gaboriau. Vol. I. 20 
26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Gaboriau. Vol. II. 20 
^ Vanity Fair. By William M. Thackeray 20 
^ Ivanhoe. By Sir Walter Scott.. ....... 20 

29 Beauty’s Daughters. “ The Duchess ” 10 

30 Faith and Unfaith. By “The Duchess” 20 

81 Middlemarch. By George Eliot* 20 

82 The Land Leaguers. Anthony Trollope 20 

83 The Clique of Gold. By Emile Gaboriau 10 

84 Daniel Deronda. By George Eliot ... 80 

85 Lady Audley’s Secret. Miss Braddon 20 

36 Adam Bede. By George Eliot .. 20 

87 Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles Dickens 80 

88 Tiie Widow Lerouge. By Gaboriau.. 20 

39 In Silk Attire. By William Black 20 

40 The Last Days of Pompeii. By Sir E. 

Bulwer Ly tton .... 20 

4 1 Oliver Twist. By Charles Dickens .. .. 15 

42 Roinola. By George Eliot 20 

43 The Mystery of Orcival. Gaboriau.... 20 

44 Macleod of Dare. By William Black.. 20 

45 A Little Pilgiim. By Mrs. Oliphant... 10 

46 Very Hard Cash. Sy Charles Reade.. 20 

47 AltioraPeto. By Laurence Oliphant.. 20 

48 Thicker Than Water. By James Payn. 20 

49 That Beautiful Wretch. By Black. . . 20 

50 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. 

By V/illiam lilack 20 

61 Dora Thorne. By the Author of ” Her 
Mother’s Sin ’’ 20 

52 The New Magdalen. Bv Wilkie Collins. 10 

53 The Story of Ida. By Francesca 10 

54 A Broken Wedding-Ring. By the Au- 

thor of ” Dora Thorne ” 20 

65 The Three Guardsmen. By Dumas. .. . 20 
5 Phantom Fortune. Miss Braddon.... 20 
r 'Bhjrley. By Charlotte Bront6 20 


1 ^ 0 * ' 

68 By the Gate of the Sea. D. C. Murray 10 

69 Vice Versa, By F. Anstey 20 

60 Tlie Last of the Mohicans. Cooper. . 20 

61 Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. Rowson. 10 

62 'I he Executor. By Mrs. Alexander.. 20 

63 The Spy. By J. Pen i more Cooper, .. 20 

64 A Maiden Fair. B 3 ’ Charles Gibbon . . 10 

65 Back to the Old Home. By M. C. Hay 10 

66 The Romance of a Poor l^oung Man. 

By Octave Feuillet 10 

67 Lorna Doone, By R. D. Biackmore. . 80 
63 A Queen A mongst Women. By the 

Author of ” Dora Thorne ” 10 

69 Mad ol in's Lover. By the Author of 

*‘Dora Thorne”....., 20 

TO White Wings. By William Black . .. 10 

71 A Struggle for Fame. Mrs. Riddell.. 20 

72 Old Mj'ddeJton’s Money. By M. C. Hay 20 

73 Redeemed by Love. By the Author of 

‘‘ Dora Thorne ” 20 

74 Aurora Floyd, By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

75 Twenty Years After. By Dumas... 20 

76 Wife in Name Only. Bythe Author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 20 

77 A Tale of Two Cities. By Dickens 15 

78 Madcap Violet. By William Black... 20 

79 Wedded and Parted. By the Author 

of Dora Thorne ” 10 

80 June. By Mrs. F'orrester. 20 

81 A Daughter of Heth, By Wm. Black. 20 

82 Sealed Lips. By P’. Du Boisgobey. .. 20 
S3 A Strange Story. Bulwer Ly tton.... 20 

84 Hard Times. By Charles Dickens. .. 10 

85 A Sea Queen. By W. Clark Russell.. 20 

86 Belinda. By Rlioda Broughton 20 

87 Dick Sand ; or, A Captain at Fifteen. 

By Jules Verne 20 

88 The Privateersman. Captain Marry at 20 

89 The Red Eric. By R. M. Ballantyne. 10 

90 Ernest Mai travers. Bulwer Lytton.. 20 

91 Barnaby Rudge. By Charles Dickens. 20 

92 Lord I Amne's Choice. By the Author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

93 Anthony Tiollojpe's Autobiography.. 20 

94 Tattle Dorrit. By Charles Dickens. . . 30 

95 The Fire Brigade. R. M. Ballant 3 'ne 10 
90 Erling the Bold. By R. M. Ballantyne 10 
97 All in a Garden Fair. Walter Besant.. 20 
93 A Woman-Hater. By Charles Reade. 15 
99 Barbara's History. A. B. Edwards. .. 20 

100 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas. By 

Jules Verne 20 

101 Second Thoughts. Rhoda Broughton 20 

102 The Moonstone. By Wilkie Collins.. , 15 

103 Rose Fleming. By Dora Russell 10 

104 The Coral Pin. By F. Du Boisgobey. 30 

105 A Noble W ife. By John Saunders. ... 20 

106 Bleak House. By Charles Dickens. . . 40 

107 Dombey and Son. Charles Dickens. . 40 

108 The Cricket o the Hearth, and Doctor 

Marigold. By Charles Dickens. ... 10 

109 Little Loo. By’W. Clark Bussell 20 

110 Under the Red Flag, By Miss Braddon 10 

111 The I.ittle School-Master Mark. By 

J. H. Shorthouse 10 

112 The Waters of Marah. By John HiU 20 


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113 Mrs. Carr’s Companion. By M. 

G. Wightwick 10 

114 Some of Our Girls. By Mrs. 

C. J. Eiloart 20 

115 Diamond Cut Diamond. By T. 

Adolphus Trollope 10 

116 Moths. By “ Ouida ”.. 20 

117 A Tale of the Shore and Ocean. 

By W. H. G. Kingston 20 

118 Loys, Lord Berresford. and Eric 

Dering. By “ The Duchess ” . 10 

119 Monica, and A Rose Distill’d. 

By “ The Duchess ” 10 

120 Tom Brown’s School Days at 

Rugby. By Thomas Hughes 20 

121 Maid of Athens. By Justin Mc- 

Carthy 20 

122 lone Stewart. By Mrs. E. Lynn 

Linton 20 

123 Sweet is True Love. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

124 Three Feathers. By William 

Black 20 

125 The Monarch of Mincing Lane. 

By William Black 20 

126 Kilmeny. By William Black. . . 20 
1^ Adrian Bright. By Mrs. Caddy 20 

128 Afternoon, and Other Sketches. 

By “Ouida” 10 

129 Rossmoyne. By “ The Duch- 

0SS 10 

130 The Last of the Barons. By 

Sir E. BulwerLytton 40 

131 Our Mutual Friend. Charles 

Dickens 40 

132 Master Humphrey’s Clock. By 

Charles Dickens 10 

133 Peter the Whaler. By W. H. G. 

Kingston 10 

134 The Witching Hour. By “The 

Duchess” 10 

135 A Great Heiress. By R. E. Fran- 

cillon 10 

136 “That Last Rehearsal.” By 

“ The Duchess ” 10 

137 Uncle Jack. By Walter Besant 10 

138 Green Pastures and Piccadilly. 

By William Black 20 

139 The Romantic Adventures of a 

Milkmaid. By Thomas Hardy 10 

140 A Glorious Fortune. By Walter 

Besant. 10 

141 She Loved Him! By Annie 

Thomas 10 

142 Jenifer. By Annie Thomas — 20 

143 One False, Both Fair. J. B. 

Harwood 20 

144 Promises of Marriage. By 

Emile Gaboriau 10 

145 “ Storm-Beaten God and The 

Man. By Robert Buchanan . . 20 

146 Love Finds the Way. By Walter 

Besant and James Rice 10 

147 Rachel Ray. By Anthony Trol- 

lope 20 

148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms. 

By the author of “ Dora 
Thome” 10 

C3> 


NO. PRICK. 

149 The Captain’s Daughter. From 

the Russian of Pushkin 10 

150 For Himself Alone. By T. W. 

Speight 10 

151 The Ducie Diamonds. By C. 

Blatherwick 10 

152 The Uncommercial Traveler. 

By Charles Dickens 20 

153 The Golden Calf. By MissM. E. 

Braddon 20 

154 Annan Water. By Robert Bu- 

chanan 20 

155 Lady Muriel’s Secret. By Jean 

Middlemas 20 

156 “ For a Dream’s Sake.” By Mrs. 

Herbert Martin 20 

157 Milly’s Hero. By F. W. Robin- 

son 20 

158 The Starling. By Norman Mac- 

leod,D.D 10 

159 A Moment of Madness, and 

Other Stories. By Florence 
Marryat 10 

160 Her Gentle Deeds. By Sarah 

Tytler 10 

161 The Lady of Lyons. Founded 

on the Play of that title by 
Lord Lytton 10 

162 Eugene Aram. By Sir E. Bui- 

wer Lytton ^ 

163 Winifred. Power. By Joyce Dar- 

rell 20 

164 Leila ; or. The Siege of Grenada. 

By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton 10 

165 The Histoiy of Henry Esmond. 

By William Makepeace Thack- 
eray 20 

166 Moonshine and Marguerites. By 

“The Duchess” 10 

167 Heart and Science. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

168 No Thoroughfare. By Charles 

Dickens and Wilkie Collins. . . 10 

169 The Haunted Man. By Charles 

Dickens 10 

170 A Great Treason. By Mary 

Hoppus 30 

171 Fortune’s Wheel, and Other 

Stories. By “ The Duchess ” 10 

172 “ Golden Girls.” By Alan Muir 20 

173 The Foreigners. Bj'^ Eleanor C. 

Price 20 

174 Under a Ban. By Mrs. Lodge.. 20 

175 Love’s Random Shot, and Other 

Stories. By Wilkie Collins.. . 10 

176 An April Day. By Philippa P. 

Jephson 10 

177 Salem Chapel. By Mrs.Oliphant 20 

178 More Leaves from the Journal 

of a Life in the Highlands. By 
Queen Victoria 10 

179 Little Make-Believe. By B. L. 

Farjeon 10 

180 Round the Galley Fire. By W. 

Clark Russell 10 

181 The New Abelard. By Robert 

Buchanan 10 

182 The Millionaire. A Novel 30 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


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183 Old Contrairy, and Other Sto- 

ries. By Florence Marryat. . . 10 

184 Thirlby Hall. By \V. E. Norris. 20 

185 Dita. By Lady Margaret Ma- 

jendie 10 

186 The Canon’s Ward. By James 

Payn 20 

187 The Midnight Sun. ByFredrika 

Bremer 10 

188 Idonea. By Anne Beale 20 

189 Valerie’s Fate. By Mrs. Alex- 

ander 6 

190 Romance of a Black Veil. By 

the author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

191 Harry Lorrequer. By Charles 

Lever 15 

192 At the World’s Mercy. By F. 

Warden 10 

193 The Rosary Folk. By G. Man- 

ville Fenn 10 

194 “ So Near, and Yet So Far 1” By 

Alison 10 

195 “ The Way of the World.” By 

David Christie Murray 15 

196 Hidden Perils. By Marj'^ Cecil 

Hay 10 

197 For Her Dear Sake. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 20 

198 A Husband’s Story 10 

199 The Fisher Village. By Anne 

Beale 10 

200 An Old Man’s Love. By An- 

thony Trollope 10 

201 The Monastery. By Sir Walter 

Scott 20 

202 The Abbot. By Sir Walter ^ott 20 

203 John Bull and His Island. By 

tvtqv in 

204 Vixen. By Miss M'.'E.'Braddon 15 

205 The Minister’s Wife. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 30 

206 The Picture, and Jack of All 

Trades. By Charles Reade.. 10 

207 Pretty Miss Neville. By B. M. 

Croker 15 

208 The Ghost of Charlotte Cray, 

and Other Stories. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 10 

209 John Holdsworth, Chief Mate. 

By W. Clark Russell 10 

210 Readiana: Comments on Cur- 

rent Events. By Chas. Reade 10 

211 The Octoroon. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 10 

212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dra- 

goon. By Chas. Lever (Com- 
plete in one volume) 30 

213 A Terrible Temptation. Chas. 

214 Put Yourself in His Place. By 

Charles Reade 20 

215 Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa 

Nouchette Carey 15 

216 Foul Play. By Charles Reade. 15 

217 9'he Man She Cared For. By 

F. W. Robinson 15 

218 Agnes Sorel. By G. P. R. James 15 


NO. PRICHU. 

219 Lady Glare ; or, The Master of 

the Forges. By Georges Ohnet 10 

220 Which Loved Him Best? By 

the author of ” Dora Thorne ” 10 

221 Coinin’ Thro’ the Rye. By 


Helen B. Mathers 15 

222 The Sun-Maid. By Miss Grant 15 

223 A Sailor’s Sweetheart. By W. 

Clark Russell 15 

224 The Arundel Motto. Mary Cecil 

Hay 15 

225 The Giant’s Robe. By F. Anstey 15 

.226 Friendship. By ” Ouida ” 20 

227 Nancy. By Rhoda Broughton. 15 

228 Princess Napraxine. By ” Oui- 

da” 20 

229 Maid, Wife, or Widow? By 

Mrs. Alexander 10 

230 Dorothy Forster. By Walter 

Besant 15 

231 Griffith Gaunt. By Charles 

Reade 15 


232 Love and Money ; or, A Perilous 

Secret. By Charles Reade. .. 10 

233 “ I Say No or, the Love-Letter 


Answered. Wilkie Collins.... 15 

234 Barbara; or. Splendid Misery. 

Miss M. E. Braddon 15 

235 “It is Never Too Late to 

Mend.” By Charles Reade. .. 20 

236 Which Shall It Be? Mrs. Alex- 

ander 20 

237 Repented at Leisure. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 15 

238 Pascarel. By “ Ouida” 20 

239 Signa. By “Ouida”.... ^ 

240 Called Back. By Hugh Conway 10 

241 The Baby’s Grandmother. By 

L. B. Walford 10 

242 The Two Orphans. By D’Ennery 10 

243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” First 

half. By Charles Lever 20 

243 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” Second 

half. By Charles Lever 20 

244 A Great Mistake. By the author 

of “ His Wedded Wife ” 20 

245 Miss Tommy, and In a House- 

Boat. By Miss Mulock ... 10 

246 A Fatal Dower. By the author 

of “ His Wedded Wife ” 10 

247 The Armourer’s Prentices. By 

Charlotte M. Yonge 10 

248 The House on the Marsh. F. 

Warden 10 

249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daughter.” 

By author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 

ana’s Discipline. By the au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 


251 The Daughter of the Stars, and 

Other. Tales. By Hugh Con- 
way, author of “Called Back” 10 

252 A Sinless Secret. By “ Rita”. . 10 

253 The Amazon. By Carl Vosmaer 10 

254 The Wife’s Secret, and Fair but 

False. By the author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 10 


[continued on third page op cover.] 

VHr- 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


k 

I 


s/: 

By HAMILTON AIDfi. 




NEW YORK: 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 


17 TO 27 Vandewatbr Street. 




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INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY 


CHAPTER I. 

Sm Norman Davenport, sitting at the “Travelers’,” lateone 
afternoon in October, 1881, read the following straiige advertisement 
in the “ Morning Post ” : 

“ A young lady, possessed of considerable means, who is a 
stranger in England, is willing to give one-third of her income to 
the head of a family ol position who will introduce her into the 
best societ}', and in whose house she may find a comfortable home. 
Unexceptional references will be given and required. Address, A. 
B., Post Office, Praed Street, Paddington.” 

The gentleman who perused and reperused the above through his 
gold 'ipince-nez was tall and upright, and retained such traces of good 
looks as constitute “ a fine man ” ev’-en at the age of fifty-six. He 
was scrupulously well dressed, and, with his dyed whiskers and 
brisk elastic tread, might be taken for forty as one passed him in 
the street. At this moment, when, having laid down the paper, he 
shut his eye-glasses with a click and looked out of window, the lines 
of thought and calculation on his face made him apjjear fully ten 
years older. So unprecedented an advertisement as this gave him 
food for speculation. Was it a hoax? Was it a fraud? Could it 
possibly be genuine? Supposing the conditions proposed to be made 
bond fide, might not this offer him salvation from his present diffi- 
culties? He pooh-pooh’d the idea; yet still it recurred with en- 
forced persistence. “ Corisiderable means “ one-third of her in- 
come.” AVhatdid that mean? Probably a miserable three or tour 
hundred a 5 'ear. But was it not worth inquiry? Curiosity and 
desperation ahke prompted him to answer this advertisement. It 
w’ould do no harm to place himself anonymously in communication 
with the w'riter. It might — it probably would — end in nothing; 
but, wrecked as his fortunes were, he felt that he ought not to al- 
low a possible raft of escape to drift past him without at least exam- 
ining its qualifications and trustworthiness. 

After half an hour’s deliberation he withdrew to the library, 
where he composed with some difficulty the following note; 

“ A baronet of old family, resident, with his wife and family, part 
of the year in London and part of the year on his estate, would be 
wdlling, in consequence of some losses, to entertain A. B.’s proposal, 
provided that his inquiries concerning her should prove satisfactory, 
and that the terms she proposes should be shell as suited him. Ad- 


6 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


dress, personally or by letter, with ample particulars, to Messrs. 
Quicksen & Co., solicitors, Gray’s Inn, who will be duly instructed 
to reply to such application.” 

He held this note open for two or three minutes, reconsidering 
before he folded it, and addressed the cover. Even then, after it 
waB stamped, he paused before slipping it into the post-box. How 
about my lady? Passive as she generally was, there were certain 
things he knew she would not stand. Would she nip this idea in the 
very bud, as she had no doubt the power to do? Wf‘ll, this note 
pledged him to nothing. It did not even leveal his identity. Time 
enough to consider further contingencies when Mr. Quicksen should 
have ferreted out every particular respecting the advertiser. And 
so he walked off to his lodging in Ryder {Street, and dressed for 
dinner. 

He dined with a lady friend of his that night, and took her to a 
box at the Alhambra. But his evening was not one of undisturbed 
felicity. The spectacle of his eldest son, whom he believed to be in 
Paris, seated in a hox opposite, between two pretty women, chafed 
him. ” Confound the boy! Alter all his promises!” Cognate re- 
flections, however, irritating though they were, brought with them 
reassurance as to the wisdom of the step he had taken that after- 
noon. His son's recklessness, added to his own extravagance, made 
a ” smash” imminent if something were not done. He disliKed 
looking difficulties in the face. He always avoided doing so, if pos- 
sible; but they had thrust themselves obtrusively upon him of late, 
and at last he had taken a step — a singular one it is true — to try and 
enable him to keep the machinery of domestic life in working order. 

1 have presented Sir Norman Davenport to the reader in an in- 
formal way. Let me supplement this introduction by a few words 
— just so many as shall render what follows clear— before we proceed 
further. His estates were in a certain eastern county not tar from 
London, where his family had resided for some generations, and his 
rent-roll when he entered into possession twenty years si nee was over 
ten thousand a year. Four years prior to that, however, his eldest 
son, Roger, was born; and his father, Sir Giles, who was then alive, 
re-entailed the estates upon an unborn great-grandson, having a just 
appreciation of Norman's taste for expenditure and capacity of ruin- 
ing the family. He had done all he could in this way. The house 
at Davenport was out of all proportion large for his income. To ex- 
ercise hospitality there and to have a house in London would have 
been almost impossible, even without the extraneous expenses in 
wdiich the baronet indulged. Chiefly owing to Lady Davenport’s 
adroit management, however, SirNoiman had contrived to keep his 
head just above water until this year. The waves threatened now 
to close over him. In vain the house in Portmau Square was let, 
two-thirds of the great barrack at Davenport shut up, and one-halt 
the servants discharged. Lady Davenport had exacted these changes, 
and it was virtually upon her fortune that they now subsisted. But 
bills kept pouring in— bills of Sir Norman’s and bills of the son, 
Roger’s— how were they to be met? Each year the estate was more 
and more heavily mortgaged; Messrs. Quicksen had declared it was 
impossible to raist any more money by this means. 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


7 

1 have said that it was chiefly upon Lady Davenport’s fortune, 
which, happily, had been strictly tied up at her marriage and placed 
In the hands of trustees, that the family now depended. But two 
children had been born of an union which, after the first three or 
four years’ had been cold and loveless, though no open rupture had 
ever scandalized societ3^ Lady Davenport’s wrongs were pretty 
generally known, but she was a reticent woman, who eschew'ed 
confidences— proud and unimpassioned, as some said; high-minded, 
long-suffering, and wise, as a tew averred. 

Sir JvTorman had formerly been in diplomacy for a few years. He 
spoke French and Italian w^ell, and was considered an agreeable 
member of society. Upon all current topics, the most approved 
opinions that floated to the top of discussion could be skimmed off 
by listening to him. And in Ibis way he might be said to be useful 
even to those who preferred original judgments, however incorrect; 
he was a safe gauge of the mind of the majority. He was a kindly 
natured man; he had been known to do things which were rightly 
remembered in his favor whenever his misdeeds were spoken of; and 
he had done them, as he did most things, graciously and with the 
best possible manner. This did not prevent his being eminently self- 
ish in the main, and of the laxest principles in more respects than 
one. He was a gentlemEn; it was said by his friends that he would 
never commit a dishonorable act, according to his acceptation of the 
teim; but his wife in her secret heart, and his creditors out of the 
fullness of theirs, probably expressed a different opinion. Had he 
been the son of poor parents and compelled to work for his living, 
a career of self-indulgence, terminating in moral cowardice to face 
and fight difficulties which thickened yearly, would probably not 
have corroded an amiable, ease-loving nature. As it was, the ma- 
terial worked upon being soft, produced results even more lament- 
able to his eldest son than to himself. A culpable indulgence had 
fostered lioger Davenport’s idleness when a boy, and had exercised 
little restraint upon his vicious tendencies as a man. His nature 
was less amiable than his father’s and his mind less cultivated; but 
he had more brains, more observation, more capacity to play a part, 
than his fluent father. He w^as tall, athletic, and extremely hand- 
some, with an almost feminine softness of voice and manner. These 
superficial advantages naturally won him a welcome among women; 
and even among men, who neither saw nor cared to see below the 
surface, Roger was good to look at and pleasant to listen to. What 
could one want more? 

This son was now Lady Davenport’s chief sorrow. She had out- 
lived all other wounds, which, like certain bodily hurts, cruelly 
painful at first, were healed over, and were only still capable at 
times of causing a sharp shooting pang. Even Sir Norman’s moneyed 
embarrassments were matters of secondary concern to her compared 
with the deterioration in her favorite son, and the moral ruin which 
she saw impended over him. She was a woman incapable of adapt- 
ing herself to circumstances, of shutting her eyes to evil, and of 
glossing over what she disapproved; too truthful not to appear re- 
pellent occasionally; and possessed of only just that amount of tact 
which kept her silent where i^mouslrance would have been in vain. 
And yet a little more expansiveness, leavened with worldly wisdom, 


8 


INTKOI>UCf:D TO SOCIETY. 


mi^ht have given her an influence denied to silent endurance, and, 
while exacting in return some measure of her husband’s and her 
son’s confidence, have kept them— or at all events Sir Norman — from 
certain difficulties. As it was, their relations were those of a scape- 
grace boy toward a mild though frigid governess. He never con- 
. suited, he never confi'ded in his wife, until concealment was no longer 
'possible. She rarely interfered or proffered advice, and thus, though 
she stood very much in the light of a Conscience to him — his own 
having long been disregarded— she exercised but little influence 
over iris conduct, and till circumstances dragged him before that 
impartial Bar, he avoided an appeal to it. 1 have said that Lady 
Davenport was a woman incapable of adapting herself to circum- 
stances; and it is an apparent contradiction in terms to state that, 
hampered as alie was by her husband’s debts and her eldest son’s 
frequent applications to her for money, she kept her house-books 
with rigid exactitude and curtailed every needless expense. Sir Nor- 
man, however, liked good living, and affected the society of certain 
persons whom Lady Davenport refused to receive. There were not 
warning those who said she would have been wiser not to have dis- 
charged an excellent cook, and to have invited her husband’s friends, 
whether she liked them or not. But when it was a question of what 
she believed to be right she was uncompromising. More than a 
year ago she had insisted upon shutting up the greater part of Dav- 
enport; and until she had paid every Christmas bill she turned a 
deaf ear to all Roger’s solicitations for money. For his sake, had 
it been justifiable to entertain in the present state of their affairs, she 
would have done so, in the hope of bringing him gradually to fre- 
quent some other society than the fast set in w’hich he lived. This 
was out of the question, however; and the consistent result of the 
inability to receive “the county,’’ w’as that Lady Davenport de- 
clined all invitations. And here, at least, was little or no sacrifice. 
Lady Davenport, even as a young woman, had never cared much 
for society. Though handsome, intelligent, and well-read, she had 
never shone in conversation, nor ever been a popular w’oman; and 
she knew it. This probably had affected her formerly by reason of 
its influence on Sir Norman, who was one of those husbands who 
values what he possesses very much at the price the world sets upon 
it. But of late years she had been indifferent to such considera- 
tions. Her life was too full of anxiety, and the difficulties she had 
to contend with were too serious and manifold, for her to evince 
more than a feeble interest in matters unconnected with her family. 
The few neighbors who called at Davenport from time to time, if 
they were admitted, came aw^ay saying that Lady Davenport’s cold- 
ness and apathy had increased so terribly that they really almost 
forgave Bir Norman his delinquencies. >He w^ould have been so 
different with a different wife! 


CHARTER 11. 

Soon after breakfast the next day Mr. Quicksen received a visit 
from Sir Norman Davenport. 

To open I he subject which now engrossed his thoughts to his 
solicitor might have embarrassed many men, but the baronet’s inter- 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


9 

views with Mr. Quicksen had been too frequent of late, and their 
nature generally of too painful a character, to admit of the client’s 
feeling any difficulty or hesitation in explaining the case to his legal 
adviser. 

Not a muscle of Mr. Quicksen’s face moved as the advertisement 
was laid before him; no expression of surprise escaped his lips; he 
made a few pencil-notes, and without hazarding comment or counsel, 
dismissed Sir Norman, promising to let him hear as soon as he had 
aught to communicate. 

Ihree days later a note summoned the baronet to Gray’s Inn. 

“ 1 have seen the lady,” began Mr. Quicksen, ” and 1 have also 
bad an interview with her solicitors, Messrs. Braggett— a respectable 
firm, well known to me. The result is satisfactory, so far as the 
verification of the statement that the advertiser. Miss Catherine John- 
stone, has a very considerable fortune, partly in the funds, partly in 
the mercantile house her father established at ^Melbourne, which is 
now carried on by a Mr. Grogan, and partly in land and house 
property there.” 

” Indeed? This is very interesting — very curious. And what do 
they call her income, pi ay?” 

” They estimate it at twelve thousand a year; at least, four thou- 
sand a year is what Miss Johnstone is prepared to give, 1 under- 
stand.” 

” God bless my soul! You don’t mean that, eh?” 

” &he is the only child of a man who went out to Melbourne more 
than fifty years ago,” continued the solicitor, regardless of the inter- 
rogation. “ He was respectably connected, and very shrewd. He 
married a woman with some money, and by his own exertions and 
cleverness, succeeded in amassing this large fortune before his death, 
which took place last year. Miss Johnstone came to England about 
six months ago to some relations, with whom she is now staying. 
But 1 gather that she is not quite comfortable there, and desires to 
make a home for herself, where she will be more independent and 
enjoy social advantages which she can not have at her aunt’s.” 

” What is she like, eh?” asked Sir Norman, eagerly. “You saw 
her? She is a fright, 1 suppose?” 

‘‘No; she is a fine up-standing young woman, not exactly hand- 
some, but not ill-favored by any means, and with a very intelligent 
face.” 

‘‘Ah! 1 don’t care about intelligent women,” murmured the 

baronet. ” What sort of manner? Dreadfully vulgar, I’m afraid, 
with a colonial education?” 

A slightly sarcastic smile curled the corner of Mr. Quicksen’s lip 
as he replied: 

‘‘Perhaps I’m not a judge. Sir Norman; but 1 should say her 
manners were as good as those of many who have enjoyed the ad- 
vantage of an English training and a fashionable London career. I 
am told that no expense was spared on her education. She had the 
best governess from England that money could procure; and, from 
the little conversation I had with her, 1 take it the only thing she is 
quite ignorant of is society. She frankly avowed this ignorance; and 
it is clear that her curiosity upon a subject of which she knows noth- 
ing but through novels has led to her taking this unusual step.” 


10 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


“ Well, all this sounds veiy satisfactory, Quicksen.” 

“Yes; so tar as the young lady is concerned, 1 think — ’’ 

“ By the bye,” interrupted the baronet, “ how old is she? Did 
you find out?" 

“ About three-and-twenty. 1 was going to say that, though all 
my inquiries touching Miss Johnstone have been satisfactory, you 
must not be too sanguine as to the result. Sir Norman. 1 found the 
young lady to be very shrewd, very particular, and tully alive to the 
value ot her proposal.” 

“ Very particular? God bless my soul ! 1 should think my posi- 
tion and Lady Davenport’s character were enough for her. Dieu de 
Dieu. What does the woman want?” 

The lawyer raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly at the in- 
nocence of this inquiry. His reply was an indirect one. 

“ She dismissed me, saying that she had several other applica- 
tions, in consequence of her advertisement, and that before seeing 
you she should wish to make further inquiries touching your family 
and— other mat ters. ’ ’ 

Sir Norman Davenport looked as he very rarely did, annoyed, 
perplexed, and a little abashed, 

“ Is there anything to be done?” he said at last. “ What do you 
advise? It she hears of m3" difficulties i suppose it is all up?” 

“ Perhaps so— 1 can’t say,” returned Mr. Quicksen dryly. 
“ There is one thing that might determine Miss Johnstone favorably, 
but that may be difficult tor you to accomplish. If 3"ou could per- 
suade Lady Davenpor t to come up to London and call upon her, if 
is possible that her )ad3"ship might achieve what neither you nor 1 
could do.” 

“ I’m afraid — I'm sadly afraid. You know she is so difficult to 
— to manage, Quicksen, in certain things. 1 haven’t said a word to 
her about this as 3'et. If all the preliminaries were settled 1 think 1 
could bring her round to the idea, but to get her to move herself va. 
the matter— I’m afraid she won’t. However, 1 can but try,” 

“You will do well, Sir Norman. If 1 understand the young 
lady. Lady Davenport might clinch the matter, whereas your visit 
might possiblv do more harm than good. Miss Johnstone is ex- 
ceedingly sharp. Knowing— as she is sure to know — something of 
3’our antecedents and present circumstances, she might decline to 
become a member of your household, unless reassured by Lady 
Davenport herself. Y’'ou will excuse my speaking plainl}", but that 
is how 1 feel about the matter.” 

This is why Sir Norman telegraphed to Davenport an hour later 
announcing his arrival that evening, and actually appeared there in 
time for dinner. Lady Davenport was quite aware that there must 
be some urgent reason tor this unexpected return; but as long as 
the 3"ounger son, Malcolm, and his tutor, Mr. Holroyd, were present, 
nothing was said; and even when the husband and wife were left 
alone, later in the evening, she followed her old tactics, and abstained 
from asking any questions which Sir Norman might shrink from 
answering. 

In truth, he was far more fidgety than she was; but some time elapsed 
before he could screw up his courage to attack the subject, which. 


IJS^TRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 11 

he had a prescience, would be unwelcome to my lady. At last he 
said: 

“ L have been thinking seriously, Eliza, of the impossibility of liv- 
ing on as we are, with Roger’s extravagance, and Malcolm’s educa- 
tion, and — so on. And a means has been suggested lo me by which 
we might more than double our present miserable income, if — if 
you’ll only consent to it.” 

He paused; and Lady Davenport, who was too well schooled by 
this time to express, or indeed to feel, surprise at most things, for 
once betrayed in her faded handsome face the curiosity these words 
had roused. 

“ What is it?” she asked, rather more quickly than usual. 

Sir Norman’s words had a way of playing round the exact truth. 
They were so near it as always to be able to take refuge there when 
attacked; but they sometimes concealed what they were so close to. 
It will have been observed that he spoke of “ a means that had been 
suggested ” to him. He now, with a similar euphuism, replied: 

“ 1 have heard of a girl with a very large fortune who has lately 
arrived trom Australia. She wants a home.” 

liady Davenport said, without a moment’s hesitation : 

“ You are thinking of Roger, but 1 can not hear of it. He must 
not marry till he is steadier, and till he becomes really attached to 
some one. A mercenary marriage would — ” 

“You mistake me entirely. Roger never entered my head. No. 
This girl— her name is Johnstone— wants to be introduced into 
society; her object is to be admitted into a family where this can be 
done, and she offers to give four thousand a year. The idea is 
peculiar— runs counter to all your prejudices, of course. But, after 
all, wmuld it not be a very satisfactory arrangement for us?” 

Lady Davenport’s eyes were riveted upon her husband’s face. 
After a moment’s silence, she said coldl}'^: 

“ 1 do not think our family is one into which it is desirable, either 
for her or for ourselves, that a stranger, a young woman whom 1 
know nothing of, should be introduced.” 

“ That is just it — that is just what I was coming to,” returned 
Sir Norman, seizing the opening which this reply'^ afforded him. 
“ 1 should wish you to know her, 1 should wish you to form an 
opinion of her from a personal interview, before anything was de- 
cided. I have not seen the girl myself; 1 have only "Quicksen’s ac- 
count of her to guide me.” And he then, with tolerable fidelity, 
repeated what the solicitor had said. 

“ It w'ould alter the whole course of my life,” said Lady Daven- 
port, when he had done. “ I should have to entertain, and take the 
girl into society. Otherwise, of course, it would be receiving her 
under false pretenses.” 

“ And why shouldn’t we entertain, Eliza? This house is so con- 
foundedly dull, no wonder Roger never comes here when he can 
help it. 11 s'ennuie, tout honnement. Haven’t you deplored tome 
a hundred times that there is no attraction here for the boy? Why, 
besides his finding a decent cook, we might then give him a hunter, 
and I could get up the shooting again, and—” 

“ I hardly suppose that those arc the advantages Miss Johnstone 
expects to enjoy for her four thousand a year,” interrupted the lady, 


12 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


with that firm mildness which usut lly acted as a cork upon th« 
aCTi ted waters ol Sir Norman’s eloquence. Not so on this occasion, 
liowever. 

“ You forget that she would find her life here very dull without 
young men, and young men won’t come here unless they have some 
amusement. They would find it a ‘ seccatura.’ We might resume 
in some degree our position in the county. It would he of advan- 
tage to Roger in more ways than one.” 

Lady Davenport remained silent for several minutes. She did not 
look at Sir Norman again; her eyes were fixed upon the wood-em- 
hers. She could not deny that there was truth and common sense 
in what he had said, and she would never allow her own prejudice 
to decide this matter. However distasteful to herself, she would do 
what was right, if she could only determine what that was. The 
curious proposal suddenly presented to her mind offered, apparently, 
an easy escape from many pressing and painful difficulties. But 
Avould it, in reality, be easy to w^orkout this scheme conscientiously? 
Would not the position of any girl, or at all events of most girls, be 
dangerous in this strangely constituted householu? Was she justi- 
fied in undertaking duties she might not be able to perform, and in 
admitting any outsider to so intimate a knowledge of her anxieties 
as could hardly fail to result from carrying such an idea as this into 
execution? And yet, painful as it might be, it her other doubts 
could be favorably resolved, she told herself it would be wrong to 
reject such means of salvation as this held out in their present straits. 
IShe would see the girl; yes, so far she would yield, and wmuld be 
guided by her impression of Miss Johnstone as to whether she was 
a person who might prudently be permitted to enter the precincts 
of Davenport as a member of the family circle. 

” 1 will go up to London if you wish it,” she said at last, ” and 
call on Miss Johnstone. But is she prepared for my visit?” 

” Not yet, certainly,” replied the astute Sir Norman. ” 1 would 
do nothing without consulting you— except pave the way by Quick- 
sen’s inquiries. All further advances now had better come from 
you. If you will write a line to-morrow appointing an hour when 
you could call on her the next day, and asking for an answer to be 
addressed to me at the Carlton, you could go up to town in the morn- 
ing and return in the afternoon.” 

” Understand, Norman, 1 should wish to seethe girl alone, and 
1 can promise nothing till 1 have had some conversation wuth her. 
It is a serious responsibility, which 1 will not undertake till I have 
well weighed the matter in my mind after this visit.” 

” Certainly, my dear, certainly. If the girl is horribly vulgar, of 
course I can’t expect you to drag her about. But 1 have thought of 
one thing which is a fortunate coincidence. We have some distant 
cousins, you know, named Johnstone. There is no reason why she 
should not belong to that family.” 

“ I do not see how that affects the question,” returned the lady, 
calmly. ‘‘ 1 never heard of the Johnslones you mention; but even 
if she turned out to be a connection, 1 should object to her becoming 
an inmate of this house unless she appeared to me to be a desirable 
person.” 

Sir Norman abstained from pursuing his suggestion further; it 


lisTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 13 

might serve his purpose in public, but to influence the wife of his 
bosom it was powerless. 

The reply to Lady Davenport’s note was a simple intimation, writ- 
ten in a clear bold hand, that Miss Johnstone would be at home at 
the hour Lady Davenport had appointed. It awaited Sir Norman 
at the Carlton on the morning in question, and his wife, promising 
to call for him on her return, drove straight from there to Aberdeen 
Terrace, revolving in her mind how she could best attain an insight 
into the stranger’s character and tastes. 

Before the women confront each other, let me try and paint this 
one. A tall, slight figure, which her friends called “ distinguished,” 
and Sir Norman’s ‘‘ angular.” A profile which would be periectly 
classical were it not for the straightness of the chin. A countenance 
not wanting in expression by reason of the hazel eyes, whose gaze 
was both intent and direct, but possessing little play of feature, and 
no empty grace of summer-lightning smiles. indeed, her face 
showed nothing that she did not feel, though much that she felt 
could not be read there. Her manner, in its unaffected dignity, 
would have been admirably typical of an English lady of condition 
had it been irradiated by a little more warmth. As it was, a nature 
niether expansive nor buoyant had been depressed by a long course 
of secret troubles, and, though she never gave expression to these, 
the effect they produced on her was involuntarily chilling in her 
intercourse with strangers. She was never otherwise than kind and 
courteous; she impressed a close observer as an upright and possibly 
a clever woman, but her pallid, beautiful face and unemotional 
manner checked rather than invited sympathy. 

She was dressed on this occasion, as she always was now, very 
quietly and at no great expense, but the taste that had selected and 
arranged her toilet was perfect. Mrs. Archibald Johnstone, flat- 
tening her red face against the dining-room window in Aberdeen 
Terrace to see ” her ladyship ” step out of her hansom, observed 
that there were no velvet trimmings nor rich fringes on the dress, 
whose delicate harmonies of steel and ash-color, she was unable to 
appreciate. The long, narrow foot, in its neatly-fitting boot, was 
equally lost upon her. She was looking for bracelets and chSle- 
laines, and lo! they were not. 

A dirth youth, struggling into his livery coat as he answered the 
bell, showed the visitor into the drawing-room, where Miss John- 
stone sat alone, waiting to receive her. 


' CHAPTER 111. 

The young lady rose as the door opened, and advanced to meet 
her visitor. 

She was above the middle height of women, though fully an inch 
shorter than Lady Davenport, and of a more robust build. Her 
figure was well-balanced and compact, and her movements uncon- 
strained, but too abrupt to be graceful. She had a fresh, sometimes 
too fresh a color, clear brown e3^es of no particular beauty, and per- 
fect teeth. Her hair, which w^as dark and thick, was cut short, and 
manifested an independence of action in its waves and clusters. 


14 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


The brow beneath was broad and well developed, the nose neither 
impertinenlly upturned nor arrogantly beaked, but a compromise 
which, if not classically symmetrical, at least formed no blot on a 
face the general Impression of which was decidedly agreeable. Few 
who watched it could doubt that its possessor was an unusually in- 
telligent woman, keenly observant of all around her, the main char- 
acteristic of whose mind, as of her body, was health and activity. 
It is a pleasure to look at any living thing with a strong capacity 
for enjoyment; and the gill’s quick, eager glance, her bright smile, 
her rapid step, and frank outstretched hand, betokened a super- 
abundance of vital force. 

Lady Davenport, looking into her face as she took Miss John- 
stone’s hand, liked what slie read there; but, glancing down at the 
girl's dress, could hardly repress a shudder. It was costly, but its 
fierce contrasts struck the refined woman of the world like a dis- 
cordant note in the harmony of her new acquaintance’s aspect. 
What demon had inspired those combinations of verdigris and 
magenta? Alasl what loud self-assertion might one not look for 
from the complacent wearer of such virulent and aggressive decora- 
tion? 

“You have come to see what 1 am like,” began the girl, smiling. 
“You behold in me an outer barbarian. Lady Davenport, quite ig- 
norant of civilized life, but very curious about it. 1 suppose you 
can’t imagine any one like that?’’ 

“ 1 have never yet known any one exactly in your position,’’ re- 
plied her visitor, with a little hesitation. “ But 1 think I can under- 
stand, in some measure, your feelings— and wishes. Do you mind 
telling me what your education has been, and something about 
yourself?” 

“ It can all be told in a few words. My mother died wheu I was 
a child. We lived very far from any town, on a big farm of my 
father’s. He had his business in Melbourne, and was a great deal 
there; but 1 never lived in a town until two years ago. 1 was 
brought up, without companions of any kind, by a very clever gov- 
erness, whom 1 hated. If it wasn’t for that, 1 ought to be a prodigy 
of learning; and if it wasn’t that 1 am fond of reading, 1 should be 
a fool. My father meant to bring me to England two years ago. He 
wound up all his affairs in the country, and we went into Melbourne, 
meaning to stay only a few months; but he fell ill. We remained 
there more than a year, and finally he died. Then ] came over here 
to my relations.” 

Lady Davenport paused a moment or two before she said, in her 
clear, distinct voice: 

“You will pardon me foi asking why you wish to leave them 
and seek a home among strangers?” 

Miss Johnstone did not seem the least disconcerted. “ Because 1 
have no affection for them, to begin with. Of course, they were all 
virtually strangers to me when 1 landed in England six months ago. 
Then they lead a very stupid life; and 1 want to see something of 
society— the society 1 have read about in novels. Perhaps I sha’n’t 
like it— I dare say not. But it’s worth trying — don’t you think so?” 

“lam afraid 1 do not,” replied Lady Davenport quietly. 

“ Why?” 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


15 

'‘You would hardly understand me if I fold you— and you might 
think me iinpertiiient, Miss Johnstone.” 

” INo, 1 sha’u’t. Please say whal you think.” 

“ 1 see no advantage in a girl going out of her natural sphere ot 
society. It she is rich, the risk tor her ultimate happiness is even 
greater than it she is poor. In either case, she is likely to become 
dissatisfied, and to attach undue importance to things which— as to 
real happiness— are worth nothing. A girl so placed, in her choice 
for life, is likely to undervalue some gem, because it is poorl}-^ set, 
and to choose pinchbeck I am atraid.” 

” Butrit she sees no gems? If all is pinchbeck around her, is it 
not better than she should judge for herself what a wider sphere 
affords? At all events, 1 shall never rest satisfied till 1 have tried. 
My curiosity is insatiable; as you will find. Lady Davenport, if you 
ever get lo know me well. You have no daughters, 1 think?” 

]No; 1 have none.” 

‘‘ 1 am glad of that. 1 have known so few girls, that 1 never 
know what to say to them. I get on much better with men. You 
have two sons, haven’t you?” 

Lady Davenport felt like a snail that is touched; she involuntar- 
ily shrunk into her shell of reserve. 

“ The eldest is seldom with us — the youngest is a mere boy at 
home with his tutor.” 

Miss Johnstone looked slightly disappointed. 

‘‘Oh! There is a dowager viscountess has answered my adver- 
tisement; but she has a daughter, and lives in a small house in Bel- 
gravia. You have a fine large place in the country, I am told, where 
1 should be able to ride about by myself; as well as a house in Lon- 
don?” 

*‘ Our London house is let at present. If you were with us, we 
should come here for the season; otherwise, we can not afford it.” 

‘‘You are very frank,” said the girl smiling. ‘‘Do you know 
that the dowager (1 suppose 1 oughtn’t to betray her name?) pre- 
tends it is purely from philanthropic motives she consents to receive 
me, and that it will cause her great inconvenience. Isn’t that amus- 
ing? Though 1 am a savage, 1 am not an absolute fool.” 

Lady Davenport smiled, ever so faintly. 

” ] shall certainly not conceal that the terms proposed alone tempt 
Sir Norman and myself to entertain the idea of receiving you. Miss 
Johnstone. 1 wish you perfectly to understand our position. We 
have been obliged to* retrench, owing to various causes. Sir Norman 
naturally wishes to return to our old manner ot life — to entertain in 
the country, and pass the season in London. Personally, 1 had 
rather continue to live as we are doing— but that is of no moment. 
If you live with us, it will of course become a duty to gather so- 
ciety around us again, both here and at Davenport. But 1 can not 
promise that you will find our house very lively. There are times 
when you would be very much alone; and I am afraid I should be 
but a (lull companion for a girl.” 

‘‘ 1 think 1 shall like you, if you will let me,” returned the girl, 
with more softness than she had yet shown. ‘‘ You impress me as 
being a real lady — there is no pretense about you. There was about 
the dowager. She called on me yesterday, and 1 saw at once she 


16 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


was a humbug. 1 am not afraid of being dull with you. 1 am used 
to being a good deal alone.” 

Lady'Davenport stayed half an hour longer; leading the girl to 
converse upon a variety of subjects which should indicate the nat- 
ural bent of her mind, and what principles and opinions she held. 
But though Miss Johnstone was frank enough in the enunciation 
of her sentiments, the elder lady found herself quite as much ques- 
tioned, in her turn. The result left Lady Davenport with an interest 
and curiosity concerning the girl for which she could hardly ac- 
count. It was a character — produced partly no doubt by circum- 
stances— with which she had never come into contact, its candor 
and uprightness were patent: its discretion was open to doubt: its 
boldness," amounting almost to audacity, offended the good taste of 
one so cr^nventionally bred; but the girl’s perceptions being quick, 
it was natural to expect that this might be corrected. 

Before she rose to depart. Lady Davenport said, with more warmth 
and emphasis than had characterized her utterances hitherto, 

“ If you decide upon coming to us, Miss Johnstone, 1 can not but 
feel that something of the responsibility of a mother will rest upon 
my shoulders. This may not be what you wish or intend, but, never- 
theless, 1 feel it would be so. 1 should not like to undertake this 
charge, unless you will grant me full liberty of speech to advise, or 
to remonstrate with you, should 1 see occasion to do so.” 

” You shall have full liberty to say what you like. Lady Daven- 
port. 1 shall feel obliged to you for speaking, and 1 think 1 can 
promise obedience in all that concerns decorum in society; 1 am so 
ignorant of its unwritten laws. As to what concerus myself, per- 
sonally ’’—here she paused a moment — ” perhaps 1 may be obsti- 
nate; but at all events, 1 shall take whatever you say in good part.” 

” You reserve your freedom of action— and so must 1,” returned 
the other, very quietly. “ Circumstances may arise, in which 1 
could only say, ‘ 1 wish you not to do so and so. ’ Should you de- 
cline to follow my advice, you must nol be surprised, or think it 
unkind, if I ask you to seek another home.” 

Miss Johnstone looked straight into her visitor’s eyes. 

” 1 don’t think you’ll turn me out of the house,” she said, smil- 
ing. And thus they parted. 

Lady Davenport picked Sir Norman up at the Carlton. To his 
eager inquiries, she replied, 

“lam not afraid. The girl is a singular character, but she is 
honest and outspoken. She is clever, too. 1 think we shall get on. 
She wants to see the world that she has read of — for she has read a 
great deal — and she knows that her money will enable her to do this. 
It is the cuiiosity of a child: there is nothing vulgar or pretentious 
about her — except her dress — and that 1 hope to reform.” 

” I’m glad it’s no worse,” laughed Sir Norman, with a lightened 
heart; for he had dreaded my lady’s ultimatum. ” I’ll call on her 
to-morrow,” he added, as he handed his wife into the train at Char- 
ing Cross, and then returned to his club, where he played a rubber 
of whist before dinner. 

And his visit the following day added yet further to his satisfac- 
tion. Miss Johnstone’s bright appearance pleased him; her clear 
ringing laugh, and the sense of humor which her playful repartee 


IXTliODL'CED TO SOCIETY. 


17 

displayed; above all, her apparent appreciation of his conversational 
powers, fairly charmed Sir Norman. Re was very transparently 
vain, he liked to believe that he could fascinate any woman. And 
to say the truth, he really amused the girl. Sbe had never seen any 
one the least like this loquacious, middle aged dandy, so gallant, so 
lull of protestation, taking life so lightly, and coloring its respon- 
sibilities, as he did his gray hairs, with the sunny tint of sanguine 
adolescence. 

“ 1 have bought a carriage and a pair of horses to drive myself," 
she said, toward the end of the visit, “ and 1 shall want you to help 
me buj’^ a couple of riding-horses. You will have to keep these for 
me, besides a groom to ride with me, and a footman of my own." 

" Certainly, certainly — m sans dire.'* 

" Oh, but 1 think it so much better to say w^hat 1 want now. 1 
am not a very good woman of business, though you might fancy 
so; but 1 am very straightforward. As 1 know nothing about ex- 
penses in England, 1 wish to pay for everything in a lump sum. 
This will be a thousand pounds, quarterly. 1 suppose my solicitor 
told 3 '^ours that?" 

" He— he said something like it, 1 believe," re.ioiued Sir Norman, 
with the air of one to whom such details were entirely immaterial. 
Then he added, with effusion, ‘‘ Pray believe that you have only to 
name your wishes, now or later, and whatever they are 1 shall do 
my utmost to carry them out." 

‘‘ That is much more than Lady Davenport promised," laughed 
ISliss Johnstone, ‘‘ and 1 believe 1 trust her more than 1 do you. Sir 
Norman.” 

"Ah! That is cruel. 1 assure you 1 look forward to your living 
with us with the liveliest pleasure. 1 hope you will soon get to 
consider yourself quite one of the family. And that reminds me," 
he added, with his most ingratiating smile, " that 1 have connections 
of your name. There is no reason in the world why you should not 
be a cousin, and it you will allow me, 1 shall call you so." 

“ Don’t you think it would be better to ascertain if it is true first?" 
she said, with a twinkle in her brown eyes. " 1 feel sure, it 1 was 
connected with a baronet, 1 should have heard of it." 

" Oh! it is distant, of course— very distant— but 1 shall take it tor 
granted that it is so." 

Miss Johnstone was desirous to be installed at Davenport as soon 
as the preliminary arrangements could be completed; but it was the 
middle of November before the household and the stables were 
properly appointed, and that portion of the house which had been 
shut up tor two years, aired, swept and garnished, to receive guests. 
Sir Norman’s sister. Lady Retford, and one or tw'O others, were to 
arrive about the same time as Miss Johnstone; but a much larger 
party was bidden to Davenport at Christmas. Lady Davenport had 

consented to be a Patroness of a Count}’^ Ball at C in January. 

The neighborhood could talk of little else than these astounding 
facts: Davenport opening its doors once more, and its exclusive 
" Chatelaine " coming forward to promote public festivities! 

The appearance of a florid, w’ell-made young w'oman, riding a 
thorough-bred bay mare at the Meet one bright November morning 


18 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


accompanied by Sir Norman, was the crowning subject of curiosity; 
though ultimately accepted as the solution of this riddle. 


CHAPTER IV. 

The time is now come tor me to speak of two other members of 
the Davenport household to whom 1 have hitherto only alluded. 

1 here was six years’ difference in age between Roger and his 
brother. Malcolm was a delicate, and somewhat efteminate youth of 
eighteen, with a natural taste tor music and drawing, which had 
been subjected to no severe training, and was fed upon the unhealthy 
food provided for the weakly at exhibitions and concerts, in angular 
limbs, and harsh, unmelodic progression. It was difficult to believe 
in the sincerity of the boy’s enthusiasms: there was an element of 
ridicule in his manner of proclaiming them; but he was not stui'id, 
for all that. One did not feel quite sure that he did not court the 
ridicule, of a set purpose. His health and general inaptitude to 
fight and face the various dangers of a public school had caused his 
removal from Eton two years previously. Since that time he had 
been pursuing his studies at home, under Mr. Holroyd, a tutor of 
no ordinary character, for whom Lady Davenport had the highest 
respect, and in whom she placed unbounded confidence. This arose 
from the fact that he had held the same position toward Roger five 
years previously, when the boy was nineteen, and, it was hoped, 
would pass his examination for diplomacy. He had left Eton a 
year, had been to a “ crammer’s,” where he had done nothing, and 
was living at home when Holroyd undertook the task of teaching 
him. But, at the expiration of six months, the tutor resigned his 
post. 

” 1 can not make your son work,” he had said, ” and 1 feel that 
I am unable to obtain any moral influence over him. 1 will rob you 
no longer. You give me a large salary. 1 decline to continue tak- 
ing it, if 1 can do no good.” 

To all the mother’s entreaties he had turned a deaf ear. Slie was 
grieved : but her respect for the man increased fourfold. He had 
been tutor to one of the Austrian Archdukes after this, for nearly 
four years. It was a fortunate coincidence that left him free just at 
the time that Malcolm quitted Eton. Lady Davenport had written 
to beg him to accept the trust of her younger boy; and, after a little 
hesitation, he had consented to do so. 

Philip Holroyd was now forty; and his early training and varied 
experiences had no doubt gone to form his character. The only son 
of an English officer of small means, married to a Frenchwoman 
of an old Legitimist family, he was born in Paris, and educated at 
the Charterhouse. At his father’s death, which occurred when he 
was sixteen, his mother removed him from school. He joined her 
at Gratz, whither she had followed the fortunes of her friend, the 
Duchesse de Berri. Philip was placed at the University of Bonn 
for two years, after which he entered an Austrian cavalry regiment. 
He was a capital officer, rode well, and was an expert swordsman; 
but his passions were undisciplined, and he was involved in more 
than one quarrel which ended in a duel. Nor was this all. In an 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


19 


evil hour he was tempted, in the monotony of country quarters, to 
lose a considerable sum of money at play. To discharge this debt 
of honor, he had, in shame and anguish of heart, to apply to hi& 
mother, whose strailened means could ill afford the demand. This 
was the turning-point of his life. He made a solemn resolve to 
redeem the past; to abjure the follies of youth; and to devote his 
abilities to some pursuit which should enable him to repay his 
mother, and support her declining years. He left the army and 
hept the self-imposed vow. His knowledge of military tactics, his 
reputation as an officer, and his being a classical scholar, as well as 
a proficient in several modern languages, rendered it easy for him to 
obtain a tutorship to some young. men of wealth and position, who 
were going into the cavalry. 

A few years passed, during which Philip Holroyd had earned an 
ample income, when, at the termination of one of his engagements, 
he accompanied his mother to Venice, where her friend, the exiled 
Huchesse, was now residing. It was there that Sir Norman and 
Lady Davenport, during a short autumn tour, met him. He sat next 
them at the table d’hote: an acquaintance was formed which ripened 
into intimacy: they learned his story and the high estimation in 
which he was held, as well as his great power over the youths who 
came under his influence. They proposed that he should “ coach 
their eldest son for diplomacy, and lie accepted the offer; but that 
particular experiment, as 1 have shown, failed. Philip returned to 
Gratz, where his mother died shortly afterward, and he was then 
appointed tutor to one of the archdukes: a post which he filled with 
infinite credit. Nothing but his strong regard for Lady Davenport 
would have induced him to undertake the charge of Malcolm: but 
over this boy he felt pretty sure that he could obtain an ascendency: 
and with his eyes open to the troubles and annoyances before him, 
he went back to Davenport. 

The event, in a great measure, justified his reliance on his own 
strength; the boy had worked well under him, and w-as now a fair 
scholar. But his self-consciousness, and craving to draw attention 
to himself, by any means whatsoever, even at the risk of sarcasm, 
wrere weaknesses not easily combated; for they w^ere fostered by one 
foolish person, as we shall presently see. He banged at the piano 
daily, “ interpreting ” some new master, in whose works right notes 
sounded quite as wroncr as the mistakes; and he daubed over a great 
quantity of canvas. But, though he declared his intention of be- 
coming a painter or a musician — he had not yet decided w’hich — he 
seemed to believe he could arrive at eminence by some royal road, 
that obviated all the rugged paths of counterpoint, or anatomic 
study. Holroyd did not find that matters had improved at Daven- 
port during the five years that had elapsed since he had left it. 
Lady Davenport never spoke of her anxieties; but that they w’ere 
ever present to her mind, Philip Holroyd knew well. Sir Norman 
was rarely at home; and Roger came only for a few days occasioii- 
ally, to try and extract money from his mother. Malcolm and his 
tutor led a solitary life; and as the boy was not fond of sport, the 
recreations afforded by a rabbit-warren and a trout-stream w’ere lost 
to him. Holroyd occasionally took his gun and a blind old pointer 
out, and sometimes strode aw^ay alone far across the hills; feeling 


20 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


that need of bodily fatigue which besets men who have been ac- 
customed in earl}’’ life to athletic exercise. But, as a rule, he made 
the boy his companion, whenever IMalcolm w'as so minded; in doing 
which he acted rigidly according to his sense of duty; for neither 
inclination nor the terms of his agreement bound him to such a 
course. Holroyd was not a conspicuously unselfish, nor even what 
may be termed a generally-benevolent man. His was not one of 
those natures that easily attaches itself, and his heart was not drawn 
toward the youth, whose manners and utterances constantly irritated 
him; but he recognized some good underlying much that was 
aftected in the lad; and he believed that this good could be better 
diawn out by constant companionship, than by merely reading 
iEschylus or Schiller with his charge. 

In appearance Holroyd was not quite English ; yet still less was 
he like a Frenchman, although his head was thought to resemble one 
which towers over all, in the history of that nation. His profile 
certainly recalled Napoleon’s, with its thin aquiline nose, square 
beardless jaw, and firmly-cleft chin. But the tall, spare frame, erect 
in carriage and rapid in movement, was as unlike “ le petit-capo- 
ral’s,” as were the clear gray eyes, and short closely curling hair, 
which grew as thick as it had done twenty years ago, though its 
auburn had darkened into brown. 

He was not generally ^ery popular, being too reticent to attract , 
casual acquaintances; while there was a military decision in the 
enunciation of his opinions which displeased many. Sir Norman, 
who, in his love for foreign idiom, occasionally hit upon a word 
which is really untranslatable, said his manner was sometimes cas- 
sant. The tact is, that though, unlike the Psalmist, he could re- 
frain from speaking with his tongue, even when the fire within 
kindled at folly and falsehood, it he did speak — if called upon for 
his opinion— he gave it relentlessly, unsottened by any emollient 
circumlocution whatsoever. This was not the case in his inter- 
course with Lady Davenport. When he differed from her, he did 
so in a manner which showed that her opinion had weight with 
him, and that, if he rejected it, it was onlj’ after some deliberation; 
a concession especially gratifying from one who treated the world’s 
judgments rather superciliously." But, indeed, tow^ard women gen- 
erally his manner was marked by a deference, often (it must be 
confessed) cold and distant; and never, under any circmstances, 
unduly familiar, contemptuous, or self -asserting. 

There was, however, one exception to this rule; one woman, in 
conversation with whom he rarely succeeded in controlling his im- 
patience, not because he entertained a cordial contempt for her; but 
because her unbridled curiosity and mischievous longde“ constantly 
appealed to him for information, or tried to elicit his opinion as to 
some of the secret passages which undermined the family structure. 
This person was Sir Norman’s only sister, Lady Retford, a widow 
without children, and with a good fortune: part of which was at 
her own disposal. Those last words reveal the secret of her , being 
welcomed to Davenport, whenever she chose to propose a visit. She 
was not an ill-natured woman in deeds; she was known to have 
done many kind actions, and toward her brother and his family she 
often behaved with generosity. For this. Lady Davenport con- 


IlsTRODUCED Ta SOCIETY. 


21 


tJlraiiied herself to receive her sister-in-law with some show of cor- 
diality. But her visits w^ere severe trials. Not alone because of her 
want of delicacy in prying, and probing Lady Davenport’s hidden 
wounds; not alone because of the stream of gossip— sometimes 
vapid, sometimes scandalous— which flowed unceasingly from her 
lips; but because of the pernicious effects which her partiality for 
INlalcolm pioduced. She alw'ays spoke of him as “ that poor dear 
boy;" his tollies were excused, if not actually approved; his paint- 
ing was extolled, his wretched singing applauded, his indolence 
encouraged; and his hard fate in having such a task-master as Hol- 
royd deplored. Though her curiosity and love of talking impelled 
her to speak to her nephew’s tutor, his manner, and the impossi- 
bility of getting any “ change " out of him, made her very angry. 
She always called him, behind his back, “ the military dictator,” a 
verbal pleasantry which afforded her infinite satisfaction. It was 
no wonder he dreaded her visits: the mischief done to Malcolm, it 
ook some weeks after her departure to repair. 

When Lady Rettord heard of Miss Johnstone’s coming to reside 
in her brother’s house, the idea amused her. She instantly pro- 
posed to pay a visit to Davenport at the time of the young lady’s 
arrival. Fler curiosity was aroused, and her powers of imagination 
stimulated, at the prospect of this girl with her riches and her 
sauvageru (‘‘as Norman calls it”) becoming a member of her 
brother’s household. Would he flirt with her, and kindle anew my 
lady’s jealousy ‘i* Or would he try and persuade that scapegrace, 
Roger, to repair the family fortunes, by proposing to her? Lady 
Retford’s mind, which she herself conceived to be of a sentimental 
cast, but which more nearly resembled one of the comedies of the 
Restoration in its uncastigated exuberance and love of intrigue, ran 
riot as to the complications which might arise from the A-ustralian 
heiress’ arrival. 

It was one of those soft gray winter days which are colorless in 
cities, but are not unbecoming to the delicate liiilf-tints and sober 
Ruysdael-like tones of an English landscape, when Catherine John- 
stone drove from the station through the fine old park of Daven- 
port. Much of it was let oft for grazing; many of the old oaks 
were cut down. The farm buildings, cottages, and fences were out 
of repair; but the girl saw nothing of all this. What she saw was 
a great sweep of upland grass on which cattle and sheep were feed- 
ing; dark belts of wood against the low gray sky that they seemed 
to touch; patches of fern, some still green, but mostly brown and 
broken; a solitary Scotch-fir here and there; a piece of water, whose 
edges were fringed with tall reeds, and with the crimson log-wood 
which, with the last few drops of gold upon a birch-tree, formed 
the only spot of positive color in a panorama that seemed almost to 
be painted in monochrome. She had genuine love for the country; 
her strong animal nature rejoiced in the freedom, the fresh breeze, 
the birds of the air and the beasts of the field; just as her quick in- 
telligence and eager curiosity touching that of which she had read, 
sought to satisfy themselves oy contact with the world of cultivation 
and refinement. She took a long breath, and turned a smiling face 
to her little maid, Jane, as she looked out of the windows right and 
left. How preferable this was to Kensington Gardens in November. 


<1 

22 INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 

At last there came in sight a large gray stone house, ^uth a Gre- 
cian portico and two wings— such an imposing structure as she had 
beheld depicted in old pocket-books, but bad never yet seen real- 
ized. It struck her as ^rand, it fullilled all her expectations, her 
ignorance of the laws of architecture being, happily, complete, and 
her demand for windows and columns, regardless of insignificant 
details, being amply satisfied. Viewed by the lights of the present 
age, it was, indeed, an unlovely dwelling, though it had afforded 
infinite satisfaction to its builder ninety years ago. The gravel 
drive st\^ept under the portico, and Catherine Johnstone was handed 
out of her fly by Sir Norman, in a velveteen coat and leather gaiters 
— most becomingly got up for the part of a country squire. 

Through the square hall, with its glass cases filled with stuffed 
birds, into a long library furnished with the hideous and indestruc- 
tible massiveness of a departed Gillow, Sir Norman, voluble and 
cordial, conducted his young guest. At the fire-place, facing four 
windows which looked upon a level space of lawn, a ponderous 
sofa, with some easy cliairs, and a small table, on which were the 
newspapers of the day and a work-basket, were disposed comfortably 
enough. Outside this little bay of warmth lay islands of refuge, 
formed by solas, and settees drawn near larger tables, covered with 
books and portfolios, and a blue china bowl or two, filled with 
yellow chrysanthemums. Somehow, in spite of the shabbiness of 
the old Turkey carpet, and red stuff curtains, in spite of the un- 
wieldiness of the furniture, and the absence of all those pretty trifles 
that make glad a modern drawing-room, the apartment not only 
said to you that it was the residence of a gentleman, it looked cheer- 
ful, it invited you to make yourself at home here, around the old- 
fashioned chimney-piece, with the friendly, unalterable companion- 
ship of books, and the capacious aims of well-tvoru leather chairs 
open to receive you on every side. 

Lady Davenport, who was on the sofa, rose and came forward 
with a serene smile to welcome the new-comer. The lady on the 
opposite side of the fire-place only raised her double-glass, and 
stopped knitting; as Catherine’s quick eyes observed. But a mo- 
ment later. Sir Norman said, “ Miss Johnstone, let me introduce 
you to my sister. Lady Retford,” and then the lady rose quickly, 
dropped her knitting, screwed up her eyes till they became in- 
visible, and put out her hand. 

She was a shambling, ungainly woman of fifty, expensively 
attired, but untidy withal, wearing innumerable chains, rings, and 
lockets, and a cap which always looiced as it it were tumbling off 
her head. Under this cap, her own hair, still dark, hung in wild 
locks about a face which was not wanting in beauty, and had indeed 
been much vaunted in her youth. Her short-sighted eyes, when 
she allowed one to see them, were handsome; her nose, albeit ” tip- 
tilted,” was well formed, her teeth white and even. But the coun- 
tenance wanted charm; it w'as restless, vacuous, uninformed. Many 
an ugly face has inspired a strong passion; one felt as one looked at 
this one, that never in the first flush of youth could it have done so, 
for it lacked equally the Madonna-like calm of wLich w^e ask noth- 
ing, and those bright gleams of intellgence and emotion, which flash 
with the electric spark of sympathy from one soul to another. 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


23 

“ 1 am glad it is not raining for your arrival here,” said Lady 
Davenport. ‘‘We have had so much rain lately, 1 hope you have 
brought us fine weather, Miss Jolmsione.” 

” 1 have been long enough in England never to expect to see the 
sun,” returned the girl with a laugh, ‘‘ and 1 am happily indifferent 
to it. What a beautiful place this is! You know it is the first park 
I have ever seen.” 

‘‘ Fanc}^” exclaimed Lady Retford on a very high note. 

‘‘ 1 am charmed that you like my poor old home,” said Sir Nor- 
man, with a little bow and a smile. ‘‘ You will find plenty of room 
in it, at all events,” he added, breaking into a laugh. ‘‘ This is the 
only sitting-room we use now, but later, we will open the big saloon 
for you, when we have a large party. Out there is the lawn-tennis 
ground. Y ou play at lawn- tennis V ’ 

‘‘ No, 1 have never even seen it. But 1 mean to learn. Do you 
play. Lady Davenport?” 

‘‘ Oh, dear no! but my youngest boy and his tutor do. They will 
teach you.” 

‘‘ So much the fashion,” cried Lady Retford. ‘‘ No girl can get 
on without learning now. Ever been to Prince’s?” 

*‘ What Princes? 1 know no Princes however, and have been 
nowhere since 1 came to England.” 

Sir Norman explained to what his sister’s inquiry referred; when 
that lady broke in, with a rapid volley of questions. 

” Did you bring down any news? There’s absolutely nothing in 
the paper! What is everybody doing? Is every one gone to sleep? 
There’s not even a murder, or a mysterious robbery to enliven one.” 

Miss Johnstone’s eyes twinkled with fun. 

‘‘ The price of wool is risen, and there is a considerable increase in 
the import of meat from Australia — ” 

Lady Retford concentiated her mystification into the single word 
“Gracious!” opening her eyes wide for a moment; a spasmodic 
movement altogether independent of sight, which, inde<xl, was im- 
peded thereby. 

“.Ah! wool? indeed,” said Sir Norman, a little dubiously, as one 
fearing to adventure on thin ice. “ 1 am afraid 1 know very little 
about farming — ce n'est pas mon affaire. 1 passed all my youth 
abroad, you see, and to have bucolic tastes one must be bred in the 
country. But,” he added, with a bland smile, “ if the subject is one 
that interests you— ” 

“ Why, of course it interests me. Sir Norman! The only living 
subject of interest lhad for twenty years was our farm stock; except 
m}’’ dogs and homes. ” 

“Ah! horses! That reminds me. Yours came yesterday, and 
there is a meet three miles from here, to-morrow. That is something, 
1 fancy, will be new to you — tliough our farming will seem on a 
miserable scale after what you have been used lo. 1 don’t hunt 
myself, but 1 will ride with you to the meet, if you are so disposed.” 

She replied with animation that she should be delighted, and asked 
if she might see the stables. 

“ Would you like to see your room first?” said Lady Davenport. 

“ No, thank you, Pllgo and look at my horses before it gets dark,” 
find conducted by the bland Sir Normau, she left the room. 


24: 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


“"What an extraordinary girl!” ciied Lady Rettord. ‘‘What 
aplomb for a woman who has never been in scoiety 1 And then to go 
and see her horses before she sees her own room — so very odd, you 
know!” 

” She is not cast in the conventional mold of young ladies,” r’e- 
turned her sister-in-law, ‘‘ but her frankness is pleasant to me. 1 am 
sure there will be nothing underhand about her.” 

Lady Retford laughed — a sort of upside-down laugh. “ No — 1 
don’t think you need be afraid about Norman. She will keep him 
in order. She is noi his style of young woman at all, my dear — 
though she is really not bad-looking for an heiress. But gracious! 
What aplomb !" 


CHAPTER V. 

Catherine Johnstone had kept a journal since childhood. The 
lady to whose charge her education had been intrusted had urged 
her to write down daily her impressions on tvhat she read, or what 
struck her in nature. 

Her life had been an uneventful one for years; and it was not for 
the purpose of recording events, but to observe tor herself and note 
her observations, to form definite opinions, and acquire the facility 
of expressing them; thus the habit had been formed. The entry was 
often limited to a single line, but few days passed without one; and, 
since her arrival in England, it had often extended to several pages. 
When she sat down at night now, her pen ran on, committing to 
paper, in a concrete form, the passing impressions of the day. These ♦ 
had a freshness, and sometimes — not always — an acuteness of percep- 
tion, which appear to me to warrant my transcribing them from time 
to time, because they indicate more forcibly than 1 could do the 
wu'iter’s attitude of mind toward those with whom she came into fre- 
quent contact. 

The account of her arrival at Davenport is given with great 
minutiae. Then follow these words: — 

‘‘Sir Norman took me to the stables: which are good. The bay 
knew me at once, though 1 have only had her a week, turned her 
head, and whinnied when 1 came up to her with a carrot. Sir N. 
declared it w'as only cupboard love— that is the way the best affec- 
tions are misunderstood. He says 1 must call her ‘ Victory,’ because 
bays were always devoted to that goddess. The baronet has such 
delightful manners 1 1 never met with any one yet so polite as he is— 
very unlike any of the old men 1 have ever known. 1 feel the 
difference in the smallest things — in the very way he pulls out his 
pocket-handkerchief and blows his nose! Who does he resemble 
that 1 have read of? Would ‘ Pelham ’ have grown to be like him 
at sixty? 

” One of the carriage horses hurt his near hind-leg in getting out 
of the train yesterda}^ which is a bore, as it will lay him up for a 
week. When w'e entered his loose-box, there was a man with his 
back to us, stooping to examine the fetlock. As he rose and turned. 
Sir Norman said, ‘Ah! Mr, Ilolroj^d,’ and introduced him to me 
— a hard, finely built, masterful-looking man, w^ho bowed with a sort 


INTRODUCE I) TO SOCIETY. 


25 


of foreign stiffness, clicking his heels together, and then drew him- 
self up, as though he had Wallowed a ramrod. That simile, how- 
ever, only occurs to me now that I am told he has been a soldier. 
1 didn’t like him: 1 don’t feel as it 1 should ever befriends with him. 
There is no what Sir Norman calls bonhomie about him (which 1 
suppose is something between good-humor and jollity). lie seems 
to understand horses, however, which is a point in his favor; said it 
was useless sending tor a ‘ vet,’ and told the groom exactly what to 
do— and I could see that the stable-yard accepted his opinions as 
final. 1 had always imagined a tutor m spectacles, with possibly a 
brown wig, and certainly dressed in black; a man who would not 
know a horse’s head from his tail, and who would hold forth by the 
hour together, if one gave him the smallest encouragement. This 
stalwart military figure, in his brown tweed suit, giving his decision 
upon my horse’s leg in almost a peremptory manner, and then walk- 
ing straightway into the house without ever attempting to say a word 
to me. destroyed all my preconceived ideas. 

“^Lady Davenport took me to my bedroom, which is a very large 
one, opening into a sitting-room, which is to be m}’’ own. They are 
shabbily but not uncomfortably furnished, with a southern aspect, 
and wide expanse of view over the park. Lady D. then showed me 
her own boudoir, which looks much more like a business-man’s office 
— a huge bureau in the middle of the room, strewed with bundles of 
papers, files of bills, letters, and legal-looking documents; no pict- 
ures, no flowers, no tapestry; all hard, practical work. The graces 
of life, 1 suspect, are all congregated in Sir Norman’s den. She was 
very kind, and begged me whenever 1 wanted anything to come 
straight to her. 

“ * You will always And me here,’ she said, ‘ the whole morning. 
If 3 'ou should ever be in any perplexity, if you should ever need ad- 
vice, or help in any way, make a confidante of me— and of no one 
else. 

“ We were six at dinner, at a round table. It was pleasant and 
easy, and quite different from those awful stiff dinner-parties of 
Aunt Emma’s, with the grove of artificial flowers down a long table, 
and aunt and uncle both so preoccupied with the waiting and the 
dishes, that everj' attempt at conversation was crushed by one or 
other calling out, ‘ You have got the wrong sauce;’ — or, ‘ You must 
not let that dish pass— it is excellent;’ or, ‘ Haven’t they brought 
you the peas?’ Everything here is doue without any fuss; and 
no one pays any attention to how much or how little you eat (I 
was awfully hungry); and the servants don’t rush round the room, 
and bang against each other, as they did at Aberdeen Terrace. 
There was an uninterrupted flow of conversation, chiefly sup- 
plied by Lady Rettord and Sir Norman; not of a very high order, 
certainly, but full of gossip about royal and other eminent persons, 
which amused me. 1 suppose it was beneath Mr. Holroyd’s dig- 
nity; be joined very little in the conversation; but his pupil, Mal- 
colm, who sat next to me, made up for the deficiency. He is a 
pretty lad of eighteen, with fair hair, pale, watery-blue eyes, and a 
flower in his button-hole. He is not an absolute fool, though he 
looks and (to my thinking) talks like one. At least, 1 did not 
understand half that he said— but perhaps the fault was mine. He 


i ! 

26 i:n’troduced to society. 

said he adored lilies— they were so Venetian. 1 thought 1 had read 
that there were no gardens in Venice— but 1 suppose 1 am wrong. 
The tutor cut him short — very short— ;Ouce or twice ; but as Lady 
Retford laughed admiringly at whatever the boy said, and gazed at 
him through her doubleglass, and cried fondfy, ‘Gracious! Mal- 
colm!’ I doubt if Mr. Holroyd’s stern face and manner produced 
much effect. Once, when Lady Davenport was describing how 
one of the neighbors had recently furnished his drawing-room, and 
what a pretty sofa she had seen there, 

“‘Sofas,’ exclaimed Mr. Malcolm, ‘ah! how 1 wish we were 
all living on sofas, like the Romans, crowned with roses— instead 
of sitting upright at table! Don’t you. Miss Johnstone? it is so 
ungraceful!’ 

“ 1 laughed, and said that if ] had to be a Roman, 1 would be- 
long to that race before its decline, which was marked by effeminacy; 
upon which Lady Retford sere Pved up her eyes at me and said : 

“ ‘ Malcolm has such a picturesque mind! lie sees everything in 
life like a tableau. It is not every one wdio can understand him— but 
I do. There is a sympathy betw'een us.’ 

“Lady D. diverted the conversation into another channel; but 
after dinner, when we three ladies had retired, she could not stem 
tlie torrent of her sister-in-law’s nonsense. She asked me whether 
her nephew did not strike me as being ‘ all soul.’ I really was at 
a loss how to reply; remembering what an excellent dinner he had 
eaten. My answer, whatever it was, did not satisfy her, tor she 
rejoined sharply, ‘Oh! it requires a refinement — something that 
few possess — to understand him.’ This lady strikes me as an odd 
compound of sentimentality and impudence. She said more things 
than this, which 1, in my ignorance of society, should call rude. 
She asked me where my gown was made: and then, almost imme- 
diately added, ‘ 1 suppose people in the bush don’t wear any 
clothes, do they?’ 1 looked at her bare shoulders, and replied, ‘ Yes, 
and old w’'omen wear a great many. ’ 

“ Now, Lady Davenport’s way of letting me know that my dress 
needs reform was very different. The refined youth had been 
pla3ing on the piano (1 am no judge of music, but it struck me as a 
sort of wandering performance) when he came and sprawled on the 
ottoman beside nie, and said he was soi-ry to see 1 was fond of crude 
harmonies. 

“ 1 thought he was talking about his music. ‘ Why do you say 
that?’ 1 replied. ‘ 1 know nothing of harmonies, crude or other- 
wise. ’ 

“ ‘ 1 was alluding to color,’ the youth said, fixing his eyes on 
my yellow dress. ‘ It requires education. \ ou strike the domi- 
nant in two major keys at once, as it were. 1 am fond of discords, 
but they must be passing ones. Blue may have an accent of green, 
or purple an accent of blue, or yellow an accent of orange; but they 
must not be insisted on: and minor keys are generally so much more 
delightful. They suggest all the mysterious poetry of life — the 
majors only the hard prose. ’ 

“ 1 laughed, and said he would find, when he knew me better, I 
was intensely prosaic: and then his mother, w^ho happened to have 
heard him, said quickly: 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


27 


‘ Don’t be silly, Malcolm. Miss Johnstone is not used to fine art 
jargon, and will think 5 'ou very ill-bred, as well as silly. You must 
"kindly forgive him. We are all of us rather demented, 1 believe, 
on the subject of violent contrasts.’ 

“ ‘ You don’t like the scarlet poppies on my yellow gown— is that 
it?’ 

“ ‘ 1 think, perhaps, they would look better on white. Shall we 
have a consultation to-morrow on the important subject of dress? 
May 1 tender a little advice, without your thinking me intrusive?’ 

“ Of course 1 thanked her heartily, for 1 don’t mind what any 
one says, if they do it in that nice way. It was mortifying to find 
that a frock 1 had never worn before, and which 1 fiattered myself 
was lovely, was universally condemned; but I am resolved to do 
whatever Lady D. tells me. 

“ As to that most repulsive tutor, he read ‘ The Nineteenth Cen- 
tury ’ the wdiole evening, without once looking up. He certainly 
did not know if 1 was dressed in yellow, or in sackcloth. But wdien 
we rose to leave the room, he jumped up and held open the door, 
wdth a bow like Sir Charles Grandison. He was delighted to get 
rid of us, 1 know. ” 

A month passed : one or two unimportant visitors came and went. 
Catherine hunted generally twice a week, when the meets were 
near, and when Sir Norman could find some steady elderly man to 
w^hose care he could confide his charge. Lady Davenport’s injunc- 
tions had been very particular on this head, and Miss Johnstone 
showed her readiness to sacrifice her pleasure, in conformity with 
the elder lady’s advice, by turning back more than once, when such 
escort was not forthcoming. She made several acquaintances in the 
hunting-field, chiefly of course men; by whom she was considered 
to be “ a very jolly girl — no humbug about her.” Of ladies in the 
neighborhood she had as yet seen nothing. One very pretty little 
woman, driving a pair of spirited ponies, she had observed twice at 
the meet, and on inquiry had been told her name was Courtland; 
but no introduction took place till one morning in December, when 
the pony-carriage drove up close to where Catherine was standing, 
and Mrs. Courtland begged Sir Norman to introduce hei to his 
charge. 

“ Certainly — enchanted— she is, you know, a distant cousin of 
mine. Johnstones— old family— a delightful girl all this in a 
low voice, bending from his saddle over the fair occupant of the 
pony-carriage; then turning round—” My dear Miss Johnstone let 
me introduce you to Mrs. Courtland- one of our most charming 
neighbors.” 

Catherine felt herself much attracted by the little lady, whose eyes 
w^ere so lovely when she looked up, and whose manner was so very 
cordial. 

” 1 hope you will come and see me? Come some day to luncheon 
•—do. Of course 1 shall call on you directly, but Lady Davenport is 
never at home when I call — and 1 suppose you too are out all the 
afternoon?” 

Catherine admitted that she generally was. 

On her return, when the introduction was mentioned to Lady Dav- 


28 


li^TRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


enport, she said nothing; but Lady Hetford, whose utterances were 
never governed by much reticence, exclaimed — 

“ Who has she dancing attendance upon her now, 1 wonder, since 
lioger is absent?” 

This appeal tor' information remained unanswered. Two days 
later the pony-carriage drove under the portico of Davenport House, 
and, with the anticipated result, drove off again; though Lady Dav- 
enport was at her bureau upstairs, as the servants knew full well. 

One morning, shortly after this, Catherine said at breakfast, 
“ Will you take me to call on Mrs. Courtland to-day? 1 want to 
return her visit.” 

There was a little hesitation in Lady Davenport’s manner; but she 
assented without comment. 

On the w'aj’’ to Brookwood, however, as they were alone she 
thought well to say a word or two touching the lady they were 
about to visit, 

” She is a foolish little person— not a desirable one for you to be- 
come intimate with. 1 know very little of her myself; but one can 
not help hearing vdiat is said of her. 1 have lived so much out of 
the world since she came into this neighborhood, that she has never 
been inside my doors; but Sir Herman and my son go to Brookwood 
constantly, and 1 suppose, therefore, as we are beginning to enter- 
tain, that we must ask her and her husband to dinner.” 

“ Oh, she has a husband? 1 have never heard him mentioned.” 

” He is very seldom at home. He is in business which takes him 
constantly to Germany, and he has his offices in London, so that he 
is scarcely ever down here for more than a few days at a time.” 

” Is he a nice man?” 

” 1 really don’t know; 1 fancy he is a little common in appearance 
and manner; but he may have very sterling qualities, and is cer- 
tainly very indulgent to his wife.” 

” Indulgent? But it he leaves her almost always alone?” 

” I am afraid she does not regard that as altogether a misfortune. 
She does not care alrout her husband, 1 am told, and — ” 

” How can she care tor him, if he cares tor lier so little as to be 
always away from her? Why doesn’t he make her live with him in 
London?” 

” 1 can’t tell you; perhaps she wouldn’t like it. She has always 
been accustomed to have her own way. She had a good fortune of 
her own, wdiich is settled upon herself, and Mr. Courtland lets her 
do just what she likes. She married to escape from the school- 
room, before she had seen anything of the world. She was not the 
least iu love; and she now sees too late what a mistake she made. 
Blit Mi. Courtland is very good to her; and she has three little 
children. I am afraid, however, that she is not properly grateful 
for either blessing.” 

They found Mrs. Courtland at home, in a modern and sumptuous 
suite of rooms, which contrasted strangely in Catheri ne’s eyes with 
the Georgian shabbiness of Davenport House. The chairs were 
miracles of French upholstery, padded, and draped, and fringed, 
after the most costly fashion ; the tables were covered with china, and 
quaint little ornaments in silver ; the walls w^erehung with pale blue 
satin, and mirrors in each possible coiner threw back the beholder 


I2^TE0DUCED TO SOCIETY. 


29 


restlessly upon himself wherever he turned his eyes. Catherine 
wondered why it was that, in spite of all this si^lendor, the house 
looked to her far less comfortable than Davenport, and as belong- 
ing to people of altogether another and inferior stamp. 

Mrs. Courtland received them in a gorgeous tea-gown, of pale 
rose color, and did all she could to ingratiate herself with her visit- 
ors. The effort was, perhaps, a little too apparent; but the inten- 
tion it would have been captious to criticise. She took them into 
the conservatory, and cut all her best roses for Lady Davenport; 
she pressed Catherine to name a day when she would ride over to 
luncheon ; she was gay, and sparkling, and unquestionably most at- 
tractive, with her pretty kitten-like movements, and soft dove-like 
eyes. She told them she was going to give a ball shortly after the 
New Year, and expressed a hope that Lady Davenport would fill 
her house for it. 

“ We shall probably have some young people with us about that 
time,” said Lady Davenport. 

“ And your son? Will Mr. Davenport be w^th you?” 

“Probably; 1 don’t know his movements,” replied the other 
dryly. “ He likes to take us by surprise.” 

“ I suppose you will keep your party for the C ball in the 

middle of January, as 1 see you are one of the patronesses, this 
year?” 

“ Y’es, 1 am one of the patronesses, having a young lady now to 
take out; and 1 suppose we shall be expected to bring'a party with 
us. Are your children at home?” 

“ Oh! 1 suppose so. They’re in the nursery. 1 never have them 
down here — it’s such a bore tor one’s friends.” 

Lady Davenport said no more, but rose to depart. 

“ How pretty she is!” said Catherine,, when they were in the 
carriage. 

“ Y^es, she is pretty, and that is all,” was the reply. 

******* 

In Catherine’s diary that night, after describing her visit to Brook- 
wood and the impression produced by its mistress, she wu’ote — 

“ On the way home 1 asked to be let out of the carriage, as we 
were less than four miles from Davenport and 1 wanted a walk. 
Lady D. tried to dissuade me. ‘ Had you not better wait till we 
reach the Lodge? You can walk in the park as long as you like.’ 
She also said something about tramps; but 1 laughed, and assured 
her 1 w^as able to find my own way, and was -afraid of nothing. So 
the carriage was stopped, and I jumped out. Lady i>’ s last words 
were, ‘ About a mile further on you will find a path across some 
fields to the right, which will bring you to thehomVfarm, and from 
there you can get into the park. ’ 

“ 1 obeyed her injunctions, as 1 thought, to the letter: but in the 
field I missed my way, for there were two paths, and 1 took one 
which brought me to a broad ditch, which the cattle were accus- 
tomed to cross, but which it required some agility to jump. ^ It w'as 
not this, however, which made me hesitate, bul the conviction that 
1 must have taken a wrong turning. Lady D. w'oukl never have 
expected me to leap a ditch! While 1 was demurring what I should 
do, 1 caught sight of two figures, separated from me by a hedge. 


30 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


walking in an opposite direction, and at too great a distance for me 
to distinguish, in the dusk, what manner of men they w^re. 1 
shouted at the top of mv voice; the men stopped, and turned, I 
bellowed my inquiry, ‘ Will this lead me to Davenport House?’ but 
they evidently did not hear. They retraced their steps; now they 
were in the next field and approaching the ditch which separated 
us: and then] recognized them — Malcolm and his tutor! 1 don’t 
know why, but 1 was a little annoyed. 

“ ‘ 1 beg your pardon for calling you back;’ I said (in far from a 
contrite tone, 1 fear), ‘ but will this path lead me to the House?’ 

“ ‘ If you were this side of the ditch it would,’ returned the tutor 
dryly. 

“ ‘ You should have kept to the right. There is a plank across, 
half a mile lower down. You can’t cross here,’ sighed Malcolm, 
leaning in :;n attitude on his stick. 

“ ‘ Why shouldn’t 1 jump?’ 

“ ‘ Because you vvould probably fall in,’ returned Mr. Holroyd. 

“ ‘ I’ve jumped wi(ipr ditches than that.’ 

“ ‘ But it is all soft mud!’ remonstrated the youth. ‘ You’d bet- 
ter not try. ’ 

“ ‘ Stand out of the way, Malcolm,’ said his tutor: and going back 
a yard or two, he came at the ditch with a run, and alighted close 
to me. ‘ If you are bent on jumping, you had better have a hand 
— it will at least prevent your falling back into the mud.’ 

“ ‘ Thank you— but I am not so awkward as you seem to imag- 
ine,’ I returned, as 1 ran back a lew yards, resolved to show this 
supercilious gentleman that I was independent of his help. 1 cleared 
the ditch— but 1 had not calculated on the softness of the steep 
slope on which my feet alighted. With a strong hand to support 
me, 1 should have been safe: as it was, my feet slipped; I lost my 
balance, and fell backward into the ditch! 1 never felt more angry 
— more humiliated. 1 had to take his hand after all, to pull me up 
the bank. I looked to see if he was laughing, but no; he kept his 
gravity; while Malcolm was too much concerned with the condi- 
tion of my velvet jacket to smile. It was 1 who laughed, at last — 

“ ‘ Well! pride must have a fall. Don’t look so distressed, Mr. 
Malcolm. 1 am not the least hurt. And, you know, if the bank 
hadn’t been so slippery — ’ 

“ ‘Ah! Facilis descensus. But you fell most gracefully among 
the bulrushes, and you rose like a Tvater-nymph— didn’t she, Mr. 
Holroyd?’ 

“ ‘ Your feet must be wet through,’ he said, without heeding the 
interrogation. ‘Wou had better walk home quickly.’ 

“ ‘ Let me first bend my hat into shape again. What an object I 
am! Luckily, it will be quite dark before we reach the house, 1 
should be ashamed to be seen.’ 

“ We set out, and \made Mr. Holroyd talk— very much against 
his inclination, 1 believe. Mjlcolm was disposed to monopolize the 
conversation, and instruct me as to ‘ the majesty of tone ’ in a turnip- 
field, but 1 snubbed him. 1 told him 1 knew nothing about sym- 
phonies in green, and that art talk was thrown away on me. Then 
1 turned to the tutor, and threaded one or two questions so ingeni- 
ously that there was no escape lor him. During the month 1 have 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


31 


been here, 1 have never had so much conversation with him before. 
He distinctly avoids me; there can be no doubt of this; and yet 1 con- 
stantly catch him -watching me when 1 am talking— which is any- 
thing but pleasant. My curiosity to-day Avas piqued to learn if this 
reticent individual had much in him; remembering the Latin prov- 
erb 1 have heard translated to the effect that we are apt to take the 
‘ unknown for the magnificent.’ Not that I felt myself in danger 
of falling into such a delusion as regarded Mr. Holroyd: still, that 
little incident of the ditch— the calm way in which he took my dis- 
comfiture without a smile, or even a hint at the ‘ 1 told you so ’ re- 
proach — impressed me to a ctrtain degree with a sense of power. 
It might be that he was deficient in humor; though a twinkle in his 
gray eye at moments seemed to forbid that hypothesis. But he was, 
at all events, a man: possibly a dull one, and almost certainly con- 
temptuous and indifferent to women: but with nothing petty or 
w^eak about him. During our walk home 1 came to this conclusion: 
he has ability which, for some reason or other, he does not choose 
to display in conversation with me, at least; he has an inordinate 
opinion of himself, and is probably as cold as he is pioud. He is a 
puzzle, and not a pleasant one. People possessed of so much self- 
control never are so —they irritate me. Perhaps it is due to his mili- 
tary education; but he always seems to be afraid of letting himself 
go. He clearly was so to-day: all his speeches were so dreadfully 
guarded! I, on the contrary, as 1 always do, ‘ let myself go ’ com- 
pletely: he got much more out of me than I did out of him; and 
yet he answered all my questions. 1 wish 1 were not so frank : 1 
am sure it is a mistake. Here, tor example, is an instance of the 
way in w’hich 1 was led on to speak about myself. 1 asked him if 
he preferred London, or the country? He replied: 

“ ‘ 1 know nothing of London. Under certain circumstances, per- 
haps 1 should like it.’ 

“ ‘ 1 suppose you would like to be a Life Guardsman? You like 
horses, and a military life, don’t you?’ 

“ ‘ A military life of routine between London and Windsor would 
not be to my taste. ’ 

“ ‘ What sort of life would be, then?’ 

“ ‘ An active one in politics, or literature, or business — if 1 lived 
in London.’ 

“ ‘ You are more content with a life of routine in the country?’ 

“ ‘ There is progression in our routine — at least 1 hope so,’ he 
added, with a passing smile. ‘ The grooming of a charger, the pol- 
ish of a cuirass, even cavalry drill, can no be carried beyond a cer- 
tain point. Here our mental grooming and drill,’ he glanced at 
Malcolm, ‘ have not yet reached perfection.’ 

“ ‘ You led this life of military mechanism once, did you not?’ 

“ ' Y"es, and 1 was happy in it. I learned discipline, and some 
other things which 1 needed. But then J had a soldier’s ambition 
when 1 was young. ’ 

“ ‘ 'i'ou seem to infer that ambition makes one happy. 1 thought 
it was just the contrary.’ 

“ ‘ It is trying to accomplish something, however little worthy the 
end may be of the pains, that gives an iuierest to life; as you have 
learned, no doubt.’ 


32 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


“ 1 fancied there was a slight inflection of sarcasm in the last 
words, so 1 answered quickly, 

“ ‘ 1 do not know that 1 wish to accomplish anything. 1 am very 
ignoiant of society, and my chief interest at present is the gratifica- 
tion of my curiositj in a sphere of life that is nen^ to me.’ 

“ ‘ Exactly so.’ 

“ ‘ 1 want to see something of a better class of people than that 
with which I have associated hitherto. 1 care very little for money, 
or the things it gives— except a horse. But this particular thing 1 
thought it might procure me— an entrance into good society, and, 

. you see in my case, the “ something ” is already “ accomplished.” 

^ if 1 don’t like it, 1 can go back to my native bush, you know.’ 
i ” ‘ You will not return the same that you left it.’ 

‘‘ ‘ Indeed, 1 hope not. If 1 return it will be because 1 have grown 
too wise to care for any of the pleasures Df the world. Ai present 1 
fancy 1 shall care for them very much. 1 mean to enjoy myself 
immensely.’ 

” ‘ Ko doubt you will.’ He turned to Malcolm abruptl}^ with an 
almost ostentatious desire to cut short our conversation; and 1 re- 
mained with the mortifying conviction that 1 had said more about 
myself than w^as called for, or than my interlocutor cared to hear, 
it was dusk when w^e reached the hall, and the two men entered 
the house b}-^ a small floor, which led directly to the wing they occu- 
pied. 1 hoped to slip into the vestibule unobserved, but as 1 opened 
the door, 1 saw through the growing darkness that it was not empty. 
A man with his back toward me, and a candlestick in his hand, was 
stooping over the fire lighting a taper, 1 had to pass close to him, 
in order to reach the staircase. He turned, and the light fell full 
upon me. 1 looked at his face — it was the handsomest ]. have ever 
seen in man or wmman— and utterly unknown to me. He was tall 
and broad-shouldered, but otherwise slight. Very fair, with a soft 
mustache but no heard or whiskers, features of w’ondertul delicacy, 
and eyes, 1 don’t know their color even now, only that they lit up 
the dim hall as he bent them upon me. For a second, only a sec- 
ond, 1 paused, then walked swiftly on, vexed to think what a plight 
1 was in to appear before the eyes of a stranger. 1 had caught the 
look of amused astonishment on his face; mine 1 am sure was scar- 
let, The next moment, 1 heard a musical voice say behind me: 

” ‘ May 1 not offer you this candle? The stairs are dark.’ 

” ‘ No, thank you,’ 1 replied brusquely, without turning round. 

” That was all 1 saw of him till L came dowm to dinner, and was 
introduced to the eldest son of the house, Roger Davenport, who 
had arrived quite unexpectedly. He is my ideal of a hero of ro- 
mance— not only so w'onderfully handsome and so aristocratic-look- 
ing, but with manners unlike those of any other man 1 have ever 
seen. It is impossible he could ever do anything awkward, or that 
Lis voice could be otherwise than musical. He has something of his 
mother’s coldness, and something of his father’s gallantry toward 
wmmen; but it is restrained, and never reaches the point of assiduity. 
There is a subtle flattery, however, in the way he listens to one, 
which is worth all the compliments and protestations in the world. 
1 dare say it is the same to every woman, and means nothing; but it 
is not the less attractive. So dillerent from that stern, cautious, un- 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 33 

bending tutor, whom one has to hammer at before one can strike a 
spark from him, 

“ As to his conversation, 1 can not recall a single word that lie 
uttered this evening; and yet the general effect he has left on me is 
that he is most agreeable. Am 1 weak enoiigh to be swayed by his 
looks, or by the music of his voice, or by the nameless charm ot a 
manner which recalls what 1 conceive to have been the courtly grace 
of Philip Sydney?” 


CHAPTER VI. 

Sir Norman and his eldest son were alone together in the smok' 
ing-room that night: (he lather in a suit of black velvet, the son in 
a gorgeous embroidered Turkish jacket and trousers. His hand- 
some face was difficult to read. It was habitually calm and inscruta- 
ble as a granite Sphinx's. He held out a silver cigar-case to Sir 
Norman. 

‘ ‘ Try one of these regalias. They are better than those beastly 
cheroots.” 

The youug man’s voice was singularly soft, and he spoke rather 
slowly; whicn gave a peculiar effect to some of the things he said. 

Sir Norman laughed as he threw away his half finished cigar and 
took the one his son offered. 

” Tou extravagant dog! Where did you get these?” 

‘‘Given me — Look here. I w^ant to talk business— that’s what 
brought me down here to-day. You hate it as much as I do, but — ” 

” Stop! 1 know what ‘ business ’ means in 5 ’our mouth, Roger. 
It’s the old story, of course. But 1 tell you once for all, it is of no 
use applying to me to pay your debts again, for 1 can’t. The estate is 
mortgaged every shilling it can stand. If you married and had a 
son w'e could cut off the entail, but you can’t, as you know; and 
there is no other means ol raising money.” 

” Except by marrying it,” said the young man, quietly. 

” Ah’ If 3 "Ou could find a Manchester heiress, TV'ell and good.” 

” Wouldn’t an Australian heiress do?” 

The rather and son looked at each other. Roger remained un- 
tpoveti ; Sir Norman laughed, fidgeted on his chair, and ejaculated, 
^ Pshaw! Your mother would never hear of it.” 

” Why not?” 

'' Wh}^ not? Because — because she knows what you are about; 
women— and so on— and she only consented to take the girl on c n- 
dition that there should be nothing of the kind.” 

‘‘ She is not bad -looking— if she were not so fearfully and wonder- 
fully dressed.” Roger half closed his eyes in a dreamy manner as 
he dropped the ashes from his cigar into the grate. ” The only ques- 
tion is, what has she got?” 

*‘ Twelve thousand a year.” 

“ Tied up?” 

” That 1 don’t know.” 

” Can’t you find out through Quicksen? It will be no use wast- 
ing my time here if she can’t pay my debts. 1 don’t care about the 
tradesmen, of course; 1 don’t much care about the Jews; but my 
debts of honor — 1 can’t show at Tattersalls’ till they’re settled.” 

2 


34 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY, 


“ Dieu de Dieu! Why, it is only nine months since your mother 
scraped together with great difficulty the amount you owed then! 1 
am sure it is impossible she can pull you through again. As to this 
idea ot yours, you surely don’t imagine, if you did succeed with. 
Miss Johnstone, that she would hand you over her fortune for you. 
to make ducks and drakes ot?” 

‘‘ If she liked me enough to marry me 1 suppose she would pay 
my debts. Such things have been known.” 

” 1 can tell you this: she is no fool. What do your debts amount 
to?” 

He drew his betting-book from his pocket and examined it leis- 
urely. 

‘‘ 1 must have two thousand three hundred on settling day— I owe 
Isaacs thirteen hundred. 1 suppose my floating debts are another 
thousand — but they are of no immediate consequence.” 

‘‘ Sapridi, moii cliere! You’d better throw up the sponge. I see no 
other course for you but to write to the men you owe this money 
lo, and ask them to give j^ou tune.” 

‘‘ 1 shall not do that,” returned his son, after he had blown a 
cloud ot smoke very gently and gradually from his mouth. 

” What the deuce icill you do then?” 

” Write to Quicksen, if you won’t — and remain here— at all events, 
till 1 have his answer.” 

The baronet shook his head. 

” 1 warn you that you’ll have great difficulty with your mother. 
She will think it dishonorable to lend herself to any scheme which 
has this girl’s money tor its object.” 

The young man turned his beautiful blue eyes upon his father,, 
and smiled ever so faintly. 

“ That is why 1 spoke to you. My mother must know nothing. 
1 am not afraid of her, if you will keep my counsel. 1 sha’n’t make 
a desperate onslaught on the girl— that isn’t my cue. Only, if the 
money is all right, I may gradually become aiiached—do you see?’" 

‘‘I’ll be hanged it 1 can make you out, Roger, lou have no 
more heart than a stone, 1 believe. Why! at your age I tumbled iu 
love with every woman 1 met—” 

” A weakness you have hardly yet conquered — ” murmured his 
son, with the same soft smile. 

” And— and 1 should never have dreamed of marrying if 1 hadn’t 
been madly in love. Yes! ours was a real love match on both sides. 
Nothing could have induced me to make a cold calculating 
de raison at your age—” 

” Would it have made much difference now., if you had?” said 
Roger, still smiling. ” But you must remember, you were rich 
then, and your choice, moreover, happily fell upon a girl who was 
not penniless. The sacrifice at Love’s Altar was only that of your 
independence, and — forgive me for reminding you even that was 
only nominal. 1 am less susceptible than you, and the sacrifice with 
me is a necessity.” 

‘‘Oh! of course, e'est wire affaire f If you at your age, resolve 
to marry for money, 1 have no objection. You have never chosen 
to w’ork; you have hampered me with your debts, and irretrievably 
damaged 'your own prospects. Why, with your looks, and your 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


35 


success "with women, you might have married anybody — anybody ! 
But you have now the reputation of a gambler, a vaurien, qui a 
mangi sa fortune — aud mothers keep their girls out of your way. It 
Is all very good tun flirting with married women, but it won’t help 
you. By the bye, that reminds me: it you go on with Mrs. Court- 
land as you did the last time you were down here, you won’t have 
a chance with Miss. Johnstone.” 

” Not if her superior attractions, in the end, carry the day?” said 
his son, with a mild incredulity. ” She must be different to most 
women, if it does not add a zest to the capture — and then, moreover, 
there is the triumph of virtue over vice!” He laughed his soft 
musical laugh, and hardly listened to his father’s reply. 

”1 believe she is different. She is not at all easy to make out. 1 
like her— she is so fresh and full of spirit, but I suspect she is tough 
—has what you call lots of ‘ character,’ — nor to be captured quite 
so soon as you seem to imagine — pas si bete” 

Roger sauntered up and down the room, puffing dreamily into the 
uir, and watching the smoke as it curled upward, while he an- 
swered, 

‘‘Oh! 1 have no imagination, but I have tact, and temper, and — 
perseverance. 1 don’t mind playing a fish. 1 have landed one be- 
fore now, that nearly pulled my arms off. How long before you 
take her to town?” 

” We shall move up inFebruary, after the opening of Parliament.” 

Why go so soon?” 

“ It was 3"our mother’s decision— not but what I am always glad 
to get back to town— but 1 left it to your mother. She said it was 
better the girl should be presented at the first Drawing Room, and 
drift into society gradually, before the season begins. When your 
mother undertakes a thing, you know, she does it thoroughly. 1 was 
afraid she would never have consented to the arrangement; nor 
would she, if she hadn’t fancied the girl.” 

Roger’s eyes twinkled; he half closed them, as he murmured, 

” Oh! The money, then, had nothin" to say to it?” 

Well, the extremely liberal terms proposed were what tempted 
!is originally, of course. But the idea was so— so— new, that if the 
girl had not been very nice, and alone, and unfriended — ” 

” Oh, she is unfriended?” 

” She has only some dreadful relations she can not live with, so 
that one felt it might be almost looked upon in the light of a duty 
to give her a home — especially, as 1 call her a connection — did 1 tell 
you that? ’Vou know we have Johnstone connections.” 

“ 1 did not know it. Fortunate coincidence. Will you have an- 
other cigar? If not, 1 shall say ‘ good-night.’ ” 

Sir Norman .declined the offer: his son nodded, and sauntered out 
of the room, leaving his father to meditate— as tar as he could ever 
be said to meditate — on Roger’s projected schemes. In the light — 
very light— soil of his mind, nothing was capable of striking deep 
roots, neither principles nor affections, but he had spoken the truth 
when he bad expressed amazement at his son’s adamantine nature. 
There had been a sentimental susceptibility, graceful romanticism 
about Sir Norman in his youth, which had imposed even upon him- 
self. No wonder it did so upon women. Perhaps none of them be- 


36 


INTHODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


lieved in him very long; but many believed in succession. There 
was a conviction about his love-making, to which it was doubtful 
whether his tar cleverer and handsomer son could ever attain. 

A week passed, and Eoger was still at Davenport. He had been 
up twice to London, and had seen Quicksen, instead of writing to 
him. The result of the second visit had been eminently satisfactory: 
— Catherine Johnstone had the entire disposal of her own fortune. 
Mr. Quicksen, while obtaining this information, which, in his client’s 
interest, he felt bound to transmit to his heir, had said to the young 
lady’s solicitor, 

“ Is Miss Johnstone a woman of business?” 

” Well, no— 1 can’t exactly say that. Her Australian affairs seem 
to be very strangely managed by her father’s successor, Mr. Grogan, 
in whom she has blind confidence. 1 am looking into them now, 
and 1 am amazed at wnat appears to be very gross mismanagement. 
Happily, hall her fortune is in the three-per-cents. She is careless 
about her money, and absurdly generous.” 

” Ahl That is dangerous. She should have trustees — especially 
if she marries.” 

The two men looked into each other’s eyes: no more was said: 
but Mr. Quicksen walked away, having acquitted himself toward 
his own conscience. Let the girl marry the future Sir Roger, and 
pay his debts, if she chose: but she should not be beggared, if he, 
Quicksen, could help it. 

Roger’s behavior, as regarded Catherine, baffled Lady Retford, 
whose every sense was sharpened to apprehend his motives for re- 
maining at Davenport, if he did not mean to ” make up ” to the 
heiress. She .could perceive no sign of any such intention. He 
paid her no court; he laid none of those little plots for being alone 
with her, which are so easy of accomplishment in country houses; 
his attitude was generally one of silent and attentive consideration, 
in her presence. He listened when she talked— and she talked a 
great deal — as though she were a new experience in his life. He 
leaned in a graceful attitude against the chimney-piece, and bent 
those eyes which looked so full of meaning upon her. He spoke 
from time to time: he laughed softly; and dropped a satirical word 
or two, so gently, that they fell on the ear like a benediction ; and 
then he sat down by his aunt on the sofa, and told her in an under- 
tone some naughty story which delighted her. Clearlj’- he could 
have no designs upon the Australian ingots: except when he was 
teaching her lawn-tennis, he and Catheiine were rarely alone to- 
gether. This instruction was generally delivered before luncheou, 
when Malcolm was with his tutor, and the elder ladies were busy 
with household matters and correspondence. In the afternoon. 
Miss Johnstone rode; and Roger had no hoise. She had said ta 
Lady Davenport, in her frank way, 

” Would Mr. Davenport ride my second horse, if I offered it ta 
him, instead of the groom?” Then, switt to detect a shade upon 
the mother’s face, she added, quickly, ” But perhaps he might not 
like to refuse, and yet think it a bore? only you could tell him that 
the horse is there, if he likes to use it.” 

Lady Davenport thanked her: she did not promise to deliver the 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. * 37 

messajre; she did not express an opinion as to what her son might 
or might not do — it he had the option given him. 

Catherine thought the answer a little dry. “ 1 did quite right not 
to name it to Mr. Davenport, or even Sir Korman,” she said to her- 
self. “ They would have thought it forward — and yet it seemed so 
natural to me. But they sha’n’t tnink 1 court his society — no! If 
ne doesn’t expiess a wish to ride with me, 1 will bite my tongue 
out sooner than ask him.” 

That night she wrote — 

” There is no love lost between Mr. Davenport and his former 
tutor — 1 have discovered that. When 1 spoke of the latter to Mr. 
Davenport, he said in his soft, slow way, ‘ He is a great prig, don’t 
you think so?’ 1 replied that 1 really had had very little opportunity 
of judging — he so rarely deigned to speak to me. This evening, at 
dinner, 1 happened to look at Mr. Uolroyd’s powerful face, just as 
Mr. Davenport was telling some story to his aunt, too far off tor me 
to hear. The expression of contempt and almost disgust that was 
written there quite startled me. 

‘‘R D. was very pleasant to-day; he talked to me a long time. 
Certainly his manner is delightful. He seems unhappy, dissatisfied 
with his life (as he well may be), and really desirous to lead a new 
one. 1 must confess that he interests me very much — in spite of all 
1 have heard about him. Mr. Holroyd let tall something one day, 
and Lady Retford is constantly dropping hints as to her nephew 
being a terrible reprobate.” 

The next day — it was the fourth since Roger’s aiTival, and two of 
them had been employed by his visits to Loudon, an hour and a 
half distant by rail — when Catherine was riding out with her groom, 
Roger passed her in the old dog-cart, driving the only horse that Sir 
Kofman had kept, until lately. The contrast between the carefully- 
appointed young man, the perfection of whose attire was possibly 
open to the charge of dandyism, and the ” trap ” he was driving, 
struck Catherine forcibly. 

‘‘No wonder he should be so little at home, without a hoise to 
ride, or anything but that machine to drive. Where can he be 
going?” 

And at dinner she asked him, without any hesitation, where he 
had been. 

‘‘To call on Mrs. Courtland.” Everyone at table heard the 
slow, suave tones. To Catherine alone, perhaps, they had no special 
significance. Lady Davenport's countenance betrayed nothing, but 
she sighed inwardly. Svas that folly of last 3’'ear to be renewed ? 
Was this the attraction that brought and held her poor boy here 
now? Lady Retford was mightily amused, and completely blinded; 
as her nephew intended that she and his mother should be. 

‘‘ So Roger is still carrying on his little games,” she observed to 
her sister-in-law with a chuckle, in the course of the evening. ‘‘ I 
was in hopes he had turned over a new leaf, and was going in for 
the heiress.” 

‘‘ Theie is no fear of that, 1 am glad to say. I should not call 
that turning over a new leaf. It is better that he should continue to 


I]SrrKODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


38 

be foolish, than become heartless. It 1 thought he was ‘ going in for 
the heiress,’ as you call it, 1 should warn her at once: indeed I 
should not let Roger remain here, it I saw a chance of it. 1 should 
consider it cruel and dishonorable to the girl in the last degree.” 

My dear, you have such extreme views! Of course, there is 
nothing like sentiment, it you can get it. 1 always say, give me 
Bome one who is simpatico, and that is all 1 ask. But Roger isn’t 
like Malcolm— he is not sentimental. He is a sensualist, my dear 
— il chasse de race — an epicurean, like Norman. The only chance of 
pulling him out of his difiSculties is to get him to marry money.” 

” 1 have my own views on that subject,” returned Lady Daven- 
port coldly. ” He had better be in difficulties all his life and un- 
married, than perjure himself, and imbitter a woman’s whole ex- 
istence.” 

After this, Roger contrived that the fact of his calling at Brook- 
wood constantly should be known to Catherine. She was not sur- 
prised. Mrs. Courtland was very attractive; and Catherine had too 
low an opinion of her own powers of fascination to conceive the 
possibility of rivalry with so lovely a woman. This estimate of her 
own attraction was not incompatible with considerable pride, and — 
as has been seen— an unusual reliance on her own judgment. 

She thought, in those days, that she understood his feeling. He 
seemed to like to talk to her, when they were alone, as he would 
have done to a trusted sister, or a friend, tor whom he telt a grow- 
ing respect and regard. His manner was the furthest removed from 
a lover’s: it was depressed, and charged with secret trouble or reck- 
less bitterness, which needed but little encouragement to be poured 
into sympathetic ears. And though Catherine withheld such en- 
couragement, he contrived, in this way, to interest her far more than 
by the assumption of a passion which she would have mistrusted. 
Bhe pitied him, and she pitied Mrs. Courtland also— foolish iittle 
woman though sbe was. But she did not return to Brook wood. 

She wrote in her diary: — ” 1 cannot help feeling that if Mr. D. 
was attached to a good and wise woman, who obtained an influence 
over him, he might become a very difierent man. Are the sins of 
youth never to be forgotten? Is he to be denied a helping hand, 
because be has been extravagant, and is in debt? It seems to me as 
if every one was so hard on him; and he is thrown, therefore, on 
the sympathy of an unwise woman, who probably thinks she is 
doing no harm. But she is. It is very odd, but 1 do not think 
Lady D. likes her son being much with me— nor does Mr. Holroyd. 
He was crossing the hill to-day as 1 was going out to the tennis 
ground. 1 asked him if he had seen Mr. Davenport, who had 
promised to play with me. 

‘‘ ‘ Ot course he is waiting tor you on the ground,’ he replied. 
The manner more than the actual words irritated me, 

‘‘ ‘Ah! probably— he is always so polite,’ 1 said. 

‘‘ He flushed. ‘ I am not a lady’s man, if that was meant for me, 
Miss Johnstone,’ he returned quietly, ‘ but, though 1 am wise 
enough to know my position, and keep it, 1 trust 1 have never tor- 
gotten what is due from a gentL-mau to a lady.’ 

” ‘ No, Mr. Holroyd,’ 1 said, laughing, ‘ You are scrupulous as 
to what is due— but you are careful not to pay a farthing more.’ ” 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


39 

A few (lays after tliis, several guests were expected at Davenport, 
Some of them were to remain over Cliristinas, and for the two balU 
early in January; some were to make way for other guests. Mr. 
and Mrs. Courtland had been invited to dinner that day, and Cathe- 
rine felt more excited than she liked to confess. 

“ Tell me who are coming here to-day, Mr. Davenport?” she said 
that morning. The luncheon bell had runar, and they were strolling^ 
toward the house from the tennis-court; she in her blue serge dress,, 
her cheeks glowing, her hair a little ruffled with exercise, a pleasant 
picture of heath and enjoyment; he in his close-fitting flannel suit, 
moving with the slow and easy grace of a Greek athlete, whose 
statuesque pallor is scarcely flushed by his exertions. 

” Lord and Lady Windermere. She is my mother’s cousin. They 
are dull, and they are poor— they have every fault people can possi- 
bly have.” 

Miss Johnstone laughed; but her laugh had not its accustomed 
joyous ring. 

‘‘You value people for their riches and for the amusement they 
can afford you, then? Who else is there?” 

‘‘ Well, there is a woman who will afford us amusement, at all 
events— Mrs. Latour, a connection of my father's. She is an awful 
fool, and her blunders are the delight of society. When 1 last saw 
her she told me her son was grown as tall as a steeple-chaser!” 

‘‘I’m sure you invented that,” laughed Catherine. ‘‘But you 
have not named all the guests, for 1 Iieard Lady Davenport say she 
expected six or seven. ” 

” Let me see, there is Medway, our county member, who won’t 
interest you, and Sir Charles Wilverly, and two or three other fel- 
lows, 1 believe, and Mrs. Hare, whom people are awfully afraid of 
— she is so satirical; but she is very good fun sometimes. She is 
separated from old Hare, but my mother is a tremendous supporter 
of hers; believes she is an injured saint, and won’t hear a word 
against her. She’s a poetess, you know. 1 suppose you have read 
her books?” 

‘‘ No. 1 never read poetry, except Macaulay’s ‘ Lays.’ 1 do like 
them— don’t you?” 

‘‘You musn’t talk to me about books. Miss Johnstone. I’m 
awfully ignorant.” 

” But 1 suppose you read something? What do you read?” 

‘‘ ‘ Bell’s Life.’ ” 

This young man’s talent, properly applied, might have produced 
an able diplomatist or tactician. He had a singularly quick percep- 
tion of character, and not alone the powmr of calculating the effect 
of his words beforehand, which may be said to belong to a certain 
degraded form of genius, but the boldness to act upon his convic- 
tions. It w as marvelous how thoroughly— up to the point where a 
corrupt nature can see no further — he understood Catherine, at the 
end of their fortnight’s acquaintance. Nothing could have pleased 
her better than the blunt confession of ignorance from this Adonis. 
There was something — something else besides her money then — in 
which she was not immeasurably his inferior! His physical charms 
affected her so strangely, that she alwa 3 's felt as though tlu^y must 
be made of different clay. His smile, his voice, in repose; his grace 


40 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


-■and muscular strenglli iu action, equally fascinated her. It is 
humiliating tor me to write it; she was fairly dazzled by the man’s 
isiiiierflcial charms, and she was constantly saying to herselt, “ How 
is it possible he should ever think of me? If he did, it would only 
be for my money. He has everything else, and what have Iv” 

But now that she heard him confess to reading nothing but 
“ Bell’s Lite,” the distance between them seemed lesseoed. Per- 
iiaps beautiful young Englishmen always disliked books. 

Seeing that she made no response, he continued presently: 

“ Wilverly is just the sort of man you will like. He is awfully 
-clever.” 

” Cleverness doesn’t make people pleasant.” 

” But he is pleasant. In spite of his knowing such an awful lot, 
there is no denying that he is' very good company, when Mrs. Hare 
3s not by.” 

” What do you mean by that?” 

“Why she snuffs him out completely: he listens to her in silence. 
He is one of those sort of fellows you hear everyone speak w^ell of — 
1 should like to know the sensation, for once in my life, of being 
well-spoken of.” 

“ I suspect that, on the contrary, you get only too much flattery,” 
said Catherine wdth a smile. “ But a man’s being well-spoken of 
wouldn’t affect my liking. 1 form my own judgment of people 
without regard to public opinion.” 

“ It isn’t possible. You can’t help it. A reprobate, like myself, 
knows the value of public opinion. Every one, beginning with my 
own family, will abuse me, if you ask what they think of me.” 

“ 1 don’t believe you — but I'shall not ask them,” replied the girl 
quickly. They were on the steps of the hall-door, as she said this, 
and passed on without another word into the dining-room. 


CHAPTER Vll. 

Some of the guests arrived together from London by a train which 
deposited them at the station between six and seveo'o ’clock. Mr. 
Medway, the county member, who drove from his country-seat, 
fifteen miles distant, was the only one of the party whose acquaint- 
ance Catherine Johnstone made in the library at tea-time. She ex- 
amined him critically, unbiased by Roger’s summary dismissal of 
the member’s pretensions to “ interest:” but after the first five min- 
utes she felt that the insolent Adonis w'as right. The man was un- 
der fifty, tall and able-bodied, possessed of a certain ponderous 
ability tor grappling with blue-books, and generally v^ell looked 
upon as “ a sound man.” He was, moreover, a bachelor, of large 
means, and consequently regarded with especial favor by the fathers 
and mothers of marriageable daughters: but, for all this. Catherine 
felt, as she listened to the dull sound of his voice— a voice that had 
no inflections in it — and watched the movement of his heavy jaw, 
and slow apprehension of his eyes, that he could never “ interest ” 
her, in the smallest degree. The words that fell from his lips were 
words of wisdom, and Roger’s were often words of folly; but the 
folly had the power of arresting her attention, w’hile the wdsdom 


IXTIiODL'CED TO SOCIETY. 41 

permitted it to wander; striking upon tbe sense like the faint rever- 
beration of a sound, already echoed over and over again. 

The guests assembled before dinner in the “ saloon,” a long 3 ’el- 
low satin room, with mirrors, a tew pieces of blue china, {Tverw 
terrible statue of “Flora,” purchased by Sir Norman’s father ia 
Italy sixty years ago, and a yet more offensive malachite table, pre- 
sented to that baronet by an Emperor of Russia. No wonder Lady 
Davenport preferred the shabby comfort and harmonious tone of the 
library: in fact, who, in his heart, did not? But it was the correct 
thing that the saloon should be used tor company; and Lady Daven- 
port, good and clever as she was, was a Philistine. So the brown 
holland in which the room had been so long swathed was reft away, 
and fifteen people, who would have sunk down into the old cushions 
of the library comfortably enough, sat in chill stateliness on the yel- 
low satin ottomans and chairs, scarcely conscious how far their well- 
being and genial intercourse were affected by the moral atmosphere- 
of their surroundings. 

Catherine Johnstone, thanks to Lady Davenport, was well dressed,, 
for the first time in her life, and her appearance repaid the care that 
had been bestow^ed on it. She was a fine creature, and the little 
exuberance which was unduly accentuated by brilliant attire, when 
toned down by a harmonious sobriety of colors, did not militate 
against her meeting with a fair share of honest admiration, especially 
from men. Mr. Medway looked at her in a comprehensive way, 
and, after mature deliberation, said— much as he might have done 
of a cow^ — that she was well built and had a good head. Lord Win- 
dermere told Sir Norman that, heiress or not, she was a devilish 
good-looking girl. 

“ The Johnstones are a good-looking race— distant cousins of 
mine, you know.” 

“Oh! Indeed? Really? 1 thought that— ” and here Lord Win- 
dermere, whose ideas could seldom express themselves, stopped 
short. Sir Charles Wilverly, who was by — for this took place over 
the wine when the ladies had retired— murmured sotto voce, “ Oi^ 
avez-vous peche cette cousine-la, mon cher?" 

Sir Norman, laughing, replied, “Never mind. Ge n'est pas un. 
peclie mortel.” 

Of the two or three other men assembled nothing need be said ; 
they came and they went, and others came and went, some with 
wives and some without; but they do not cross the main path of 
this narrative. It was all so new to Catherine Johnstone, that the 
most colorless object in this background afforded her some amuse- 
ment or material for speculation. Lord Windermere Avas the first 
peer she had ever beheld. Of him, and of his excellent wife, she 
wrote in her diary — “Mr. Davenport was right, they certainly are 
very dull. She was most kind to me, but did not even attempt ta 
converse. She sat smiling on the sofa beside me, murmuring, ‘ How 
nice for you to be with dear Lady Davenport!’ And 1 replied that 
it was nice; and then she varied the phrase, and thought that noth- 
ing could bo nicer — indeed, it was ver}’’ nice for her, also— it w^as a 
nice arrangement for both parties— and so on. As to Lord Winder- 
mere, it the Upper Ilouse is composed of many such men, it is a 
potent argument for the abolition of hereditary dignities. 1 sup- 


42 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


pose no such person could be elected by a constituency, to represent 
their interests and to legislate. He would not at Melbourne, at any 
rale. Mrs. Latour amused me, immensely. She is a tall pretty 
woman, tvith one of the silliest faces, and the most self-conscious 
manner 1 ever met. I doubt her ever forgetting herself, and her 
beautiful clothes, and the effect she believes she is creating, for a 
single moment. Her blunders d la Malaprop are really less entertain- 
ing than her vanity. When she heard that I hunted she exclaimed. 

‘ Ah! it must be delightful to hunt! But the world would talk if 1 
did it. It is so hard, but that is the penalty one pays tor personal 
appearance.’ And the fun of it was that 1 am sure she had not the 
least idea she was saying a rude thing!” 

But though she was well amused that evening, the only person 
who really interested Catherine w^as Mrs. Hare; and loward her she 
felt irresistibly drawn, in spite of all Lady Retford’s innuendoes. 

She was no longer in her first youth, but still brilliantly hand- 
some, with a classical regularity of feature seldom combined with 
varied expression; passion, humor, satire, and —sometimes, but very 
rarely— tenderness, gleaming and flashing through the veiled light 
of her long-lashed eyes. She could be extremely amusing; no. one 
told a story so well-, or could be so quietly satirical; and none more 
generous and unstinting in recognition of pleasant social qualities 
in others. But she was a dangerous enemy; eloquent in attack of 
tyranny (especially domestic tyranny); ever ready to protect the op- 
pressed; burning and bitter in her scorn, and very unforgiving of 
injuries. Where she cliose to exercise her charm, it was scarcely 
possible to resist it, even in the face of things said and done which 
good taste might regret, and judgment disapprove. It W’as such in- 
fluence as this that she possessed over Lady Davenport. Two 
women more diametrically opposed in every way, it w’oiild have 
been difficult to find. But having originally taken up her cause, 
with a strong feeling that injustice had been done Mrs. Hare, the 
power of the generous, passionate, brilliantly endowed W'oman over 
the wise and well-regulated mind of the other was great. And this 
was the more remarkable, inasmuch as Lady Davenport had no keen 
appreciation of her genius, oi sympathy with her views. She often 
deplored her friend’s witticisms, wiiich, indeed, had occasionally a 
flavor of coarseness; but she never for a moment listened to the scan- 
dal which associated Mrs. Hare’s name with that of her old, tried 
friend. Sir Charles Wilverly. And to prove her belief in the inno- 
cence of this friendship, she had invited them here together. The 
support of so immaculate a woman had proved a tower of strength 
to Mrs. Hare before this; and had been recognized with gratitude 
in the dedication of a volume of verse to Lady Davenport. Lady 
Retford might chuckle over it all, and whistle, and shake her head: 
tne presence of Mrs. Hare, as a guest of her sister-in-law, testified 
to that lady’s conviction that, though possibly unwise, the object of 
so much gossip, jealousy, and dread was maligned by the world in 
general. 

She sat opposite Catherine at dinner; and the two women watched 
each other, from time to time, with mutual pleasure. The girl’s 
intelligence and fresh geniality, her healthy organization, and un- 
conventional manner, appealed strongly to the poetess, who was also 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


43 

a woman of the world; while Catherine’s admiration of the beauti- 
ful face, and her delight at some humorous anecdote, delivered with 
down dropped lids by a low musical voice for the benefit of that 
end of the table, were not thrown away upon JMrs. Hare. 

“ That girl is line a pleasant sea-wind,” she said to Sir Charles, 
next her. “ 1 feel her invigorating effect across the table— full of 
salt and freshness.” 

‘‘ Flattery is not supposed to be invigorating,” replied her neigh- 
bor, with a smile. ” And that girl has been flattering you silently, 
ever since the beginning of dinner.” 

Mrs. Hare smiled. ” She is much too good for Roger, 1 am sure. 
1 hope she won’t be victimized.” 

‘‘ It doesn’t look much like it. Do you see him at the other end 
of the table, how he’ is turning the head of that little woman with 
the fuzzy gold hair? 1 am told that no ^roman can resist Roger’s 
eyes wdien he looks down into her face in that way.” 

” Huw can you talk such stuff! a barber’s block like that.” 

” Ah, you haven’t been tried. He has never looked down into 
your face in that way.” 

* ****** 

After dinner, Mrs. Hare made Catherine at once sit down beside 
her, and they talked for some lime. It was never difficult to win 
the girl’s confidence; hers was a singularly frank nature; and in 
the course of a quarter of an hour she had told her new acquaint- 
ance enough of herself to strengthen the interest with which she 
had already inspired Mrs. Hare. To find that this colonially edu- 
cated girl had read so widely, and had conceived so vivid a picture 
of much that had come to her through books alone, was a revelation 
to one who was accustomed to consider the young ladies of society 
as thinking-machines of a limited capacitj’’: producing more or less 
material aher an orthodox and conventional manner. 

Catlierine was struck by wdiat seemed to her a curious coincidence 
that evening. After conversing some time, Mrs. Hare said: 

” What do you think of tire men here? There is no one w'^rth any 
brains but Sir Charles Wilverly, and that tutor.” 

” Mr. Davenport is not a reading man, but he has plenty of 
brains,” was Catherine’s reply. 

” They are brains that are of no good to any one. 1 am tolerant 
of scamps in general, but 1 have no patience with Roger Davenport. 
He has given his poor mother such anxiety, and now—” 

At this moment Lady Davenport, who had left Lady Winder- 
mere’s side and crossed the room, came up to ask Mrs. Hare a ques- 
tion. Catlierine lose and went up to Mrs. Courtland, wdio, since 
the ladies had come into the drawing-room, had been left alone to 
turn over a photograph-book. This isolation, though probably in- 
tentional, was not niarked; inasmuch as there were eight ladies, dis- 
posed in couples, and Mrs. Courtland was the solitary ninth. But 
Catherine’s kind nature (which is, to high breeding, as the sketch to 
the finished picture) impelled her to go and talk to the apparently 
neglected lady, now that her own conversation with Mrs. Hare was 
interrupted: 

Almost the first words Mrs. Courtland said were, 

” Do tell me what you think of Mr, Davenport.” 


44 


IJ^TRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


“ 1 think him very handsome, as every one must.” 

” And with such refinement! such a perfect gentleman!” 

” Yes— he is very gentleman-like.” 

‘‘We are immense friends, you know. 1 take the deepest interest 
in him. 1 am always telling him he ought to marry.” 

‘‘Ought he?” was Catherine’s rather stupid rejoinder: but, in- 
deed, she was nearly dumb with astonishment. 

‘‘ Yes; and the world is so hard upon him— his own mother — every 
one:” here her manner became nervous, and she spoke very fast. 
‘‘ He has been over to me several times since he came, and 1 have 
given him no end of good advice, 1 hope you’ll be kind to him. 
He — he thinks a great deal of you; he says you are so very sensible 
and so clever, and— and it would be such a good thing for him to 
have a— a friend like you.” 

Catherine’s amazement was tinged with indignation. Was it pos- 
sible that she misunderstood Mrs. Courtland’s implication? At all 
events, wdiatever the nature of Roger’s feeling for this little woman, 
or hers for him, Catherine had no fancy to be made the subject of 
conversation between them, the line, apparently, being that of cau- 
tious commendation on the one side, and worldly advice on the 
other. 

How she would have replied it is difficult to say; but the men had 
come in from the dining-room; Lord Windermere and Mr. Medway 
joined them, and then, a little later, Roger Davenport. He never 
left Mrs. Courtland’s side the whole evening. They went into the 
billiaid-room together, ostensibly to play a game, but Catherine and 
one of the young men of the party entering a quarter of an hour 
later, found Mrs, Courtland lying back on a settee, with closed 
eyes, and pale as death, and Roger standing over her with a glass of 
water. 

‘‘ She has fainted,” he said slowly. ‘‘ but 1 didn’t want to make 
a fuss; have you any salts? She’ll be all right in a few minutes.” 

‘‘ Fan her while 1 run and fetch some sal -volatile. Open that 
window, Mr. Brown,” and the girl flew to her room. 

Mrs. Courtland revived under these restoratives before very long, 
and returned to the drawing-room by the time her carriage was an- 
nounced, looking, indeed, very pale, but with no other evidence of 
agitation or indisposition. 

‘‘ How kind you have been to me!” she whispered, squeezing 
Catherine’s hand. ‘‘ I am so grateful, 1 don’t know what 1 should 
have done alone with only these horrid hard women, it it had not 
been for you, I feel very giddy and weak still. Won’t you come 
over, and see how 1 am to-morrow?” 

And Catherine promised she would. 

In her diary that night occurred the following passage: 

‘‘ I can not make this little woman out at all. 1 never met with 
any one like her; that is not surprising, but 1 can not recall any 
position in a book similar to that of Roger and herself, as it appears 
tome. Does she care about him seriously: or is it only what she 
seems to wish me to believe, a deep friendly interest that she feels 
for him? Certainly, upon any other hypothesis, it seems difficult to 
understand her praising him to me in the very marked manner she 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


45 


did to-night. That she could not teel jealous of me under any cir- 
cumstances, that 1 understand; but that she should apparently wish 
to throw us in each other’s way, and, unless 1 mistook her strangely, 
suggest the idea ot a marriage between us, tliis passes my compre- 
hension. Ilow restless, how excitable, and how very fragile she 
looks. As she lay there white and still, 1 thought I understood how 
the feverish troubled spirit was wearing and tearing its poor little 
tenement to pieces. Mr. Davenport looked at me with a very 
strange expression, an expression 1 found it difficult to read satisfac- 
torily, as 1 stood beside the sofa on which she lay; it was almost 
deprecatory; it seemed to say, ‘ 1 can’t help it; you see the sort of 
woman she is — is it my fault?’ Of course 1 may be wrong, and his 
face may" have meant nothing of what 1 fancied it indicated; but it 
left a painful impression on my mind.” 

She drove over to Brookwood the following day, but she took Mrs. 
Hare with her. That lady had resisted at first. 

‘‘ 1 feel no interest whatever in Mrs. Courlland— and as to her 
fainting fits, I fancy" they come on very conveniently whenever they 
are wanted. But if you wish to go. Miss Johnstone — ” 

” 1 do; indeed 1 must go, for 1 promised lo do so.” 

Their visit was very short. Mrs. Courtland seemed quite well 
again, and in brilliant spirits. She was full ot her hall, which was 
to take place on New Year’s-day. She expected two hundred peo- 
ple; her presents for the cotillon were all coming from Paris; the 
supper was to be at small round tables in the conservatory, and the 
park was to be lighted up. She was still on this subject when Mr. 
lioger Davenport was announced, arid Mrs. Hare immediately rose. 

” I am afraid it will be dark before we get home,” she said. 

” Mind y"Ou make Lady Davenport come early to the ball,” was 
Mrs. Courtland’s last injunction to Catherine; ” and 1 hope she is 
going to bring lots of dancing men.” 

“ Mountjoy and Charley Thane are coming, and one or two others, 
I believe,” said Roger, as he held the door open for the two ladies 
to pass out. 

‘‘That woman and Roger Davenport are very well matched,'’ 
said IVIrs. Hare, as they drove home. 

Catherine was silent. 


CHAPTER Ylll. 

‘‘ Where is Miss Johnstone? Has any one seen her?” 

The speaker was Lady Davenport; the hour twelve o’clock. She 
entered the drawing-room where all the ladies, except Mrs. Hare, 
who was supposed to be in the throes of literary composition up- 
stairs, were seated at work. Lady Retford answered with a laugh, 

‘‘ My dear, 1 believe you’ll find her in the billiard-room playing 
with the men. We were too dull for her. She actually" talked of 
walking out in the pouring rain; but I observed that all the men 
took their exercise, such a day" as this, round the billiard-table, and 
she instantly left the room. He! he!” 

‘‘1 should have liked so much to have gone too!” cried Mrs. 
Latour, raising her inane, pretty face from a sunflower -‘‘ only 1 


46 


INTKODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


don’t play billiards, and the smell of smoke makes me sick — and I 
don’t think it perhaps was quite nice to go and sit there, though 1 
should so have liked it. But I am so afraid of being talked about. 
Noblesse oblige.” 

Lady Davenport smiled, but made no reply, as she left the library. 

Lady Retford had divined correctly. Her sister-in-law, opening 
the door of the billiard-room, beheld Catherine through a cloud of 
smoke with a cue in her hand playing, not indeed with all the men,, 
but with one, and that one her son, Roger. There was nothing re- 
markable in ’this; he had played lawn-tennis with Miss Johnstone 
every morning. But the door had opened noiselessly; and her son’s 
back was turned toward the dooi, as Lady Davenport entered. He 
was speaking; and what she heard was this:— 

“ Ah! but no good w^omen will have anything to say to me, so 1 
am obliged to comfort mj’^selt with — those who will.” 

He turned sharp round, as the rustle of his mother’s dress caught 
his ear, and, for once in his life, he colored. She said in her calm, 
deliberate way to Catherine, 

” When you have done your game, will you come to my boudoir 
for a few minutes before luncheon. Miss Johnstone?” 

Catherine, wholly unperturbed by the presence of her ladyship, 
made a capital stroke, and then, as she 'stood erect, said, with a 
radiant face, 

” Certainly — 1 shall have beaten Mr. Davenport in ten minutes 
(of course, you know, he gave me 25) —and then I’ll come to you. 
Lady Davenport.” 

As soon as the door had closed upon his mother, Roger, who was 
chalking his cue, said softly, without looking up, 

‘‘ You will see it J wasn’t light in what 1 said yesterday.” 

‘‘ What about?” 

” My family’s abusing me. My mother’ll do it to you— see it she 
doesn’t.” 

“How can you talk so, Mr, Davenpoit! You seem to believe in 
nobody. 1 am suie youi mothei wouldn’t say a word that wasn’t — 
wasn’t — ” 

“ True— that is what you mean; and you are quite right. She is 
very fond of me too, poor soul, only she doesn’t understand me. 1 
am really not as bad as'she thinks. 1 have been in every sort of 
scrape; but 1 think there are allowances to be made for me. She 
can’t make allowances; she is awfully severe, like most good peo- 
ple, 1 suppose,” 

“ Don't say that; it isn’t true, 1 dare say she is very anxious 
about you, that 1 can well understand, and from your own admis- 
sion she has cause.” 

“ Yes — but she doesn’t see that influence— the right woman’s in- 
fluence — might make a different man of me.” 

Catherine opened her mouth to reply; but she checked herself in 
time. Her impetuosity might have landed her in a difficulty. As 
it was, she played a bad stroke, and Roger, with a cannon, won the 
game after all. 

“ You only won by a fluke,” she said, as she laid down her cue 
with a smile. 

He lit another cigar when she had left the room, and stood with 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


47 

tis legs apart, and his back to the fire, leaning his shoulders against 
the mantel-piece, and seeing far more through his halt-shut eyes 
than the green-baize table upon which they rested. 

“ If 1 win, it will be by a duke; and if 1 lose— what then?” 

Lady Davenport sat at her escritoire, which was covered with 
letters, bills, and memoranda oi various kinds. It was, as Catherine 
had observed on her first visit to the room, one in which the jrraces 
ot life had not been allowed much liberty to disport themselves. A 
chalk head of Lady Davenport’s mother by Sir Thomas Lawrence 
was the only work of art upon the walls. There were several book- 
shelves, a map of the estate, and some plans for farm-buildings 
which had been projected and were sorely needed, but, for lack of 
funds, had never yet been carried out. A photograph of Roger, a 
most favorable likeness, with his beautiful head seen in three- 
quarters, and his long lithe limbs gracefully indolent in knicker- 
bockers, stood on the table before her. A well-worn carpet covered 
the floor, and a good lire burned in the grate, before which a black 
and tan terrier lay curled up. She half opened an eye, and raised 
one ear almost imperceptibly as Catherine entered; but observing 
that the event was one upon which apparently neither chicken-bones 
nor a scamper in the wet grass were contingent, she considered it 
beneath her serious notice, and relapsed into a doze. 

“Come in. Miss Johnstone,” said Lady Davenport, rising, and 
going toward the fire-place. ” Sit here on tne sofa by me, will 
you? 1 want to have a little quiet talit with you. 1 feel there are 
certain things that 1, standing: as it were in the light ot a mother to 
you now, should warn you about. One is against forming any in- 
timacy with Mrs. Courtland. You drove over there yesterday. 1 
was sorry for it. Her conduct displeased me exceedingly the other 
night; it is certainly the last time 1 shall ask her here. 1 had no 
idea — however, my son was equally to blame. 1 don’t mean to ex- 
onerate him.” 

Catherine waited for a minute, before she said, “ You see, Lady 
Davenport, every one is very hard upon your son, and Mrs. Court- 
land is sympathetic and kind. She may not be a wise friend, 1 dare 
say not, but 1 don’t think she means any harm.” 

Lady Davenport did not reply to this qi/asi defense of Mrs. Court- 
land. She bit her lip; and passed on to the yet more painful part 
of er task. 

“ What you say of Roger brings me to speak of him to you, 
which I do — you may well believe — with great reluctance. Though 
1 am his mother and very fond of him, 1 can not be blind to his 
faults. Y'ou seem to pity him— >ou talk of every one being hard 
on him. I assure you his father has been more than indulgent. 
Roger has contrived to interest you as he does most women. He 
has been very much spoiled by women of Mrs, Court land’s stamp. 
Ot course 1 know there is no real feeling on either side— it is pureiy 
vanity — but it is not the less mischievous. Plis ideas about our sex 
and about marriage distress me very much at present. I hope it 
will not always be so. 1 hope some day he will fall in love honestly 
and marry; but that will not be till he is disgusted with his present 
life.” 

“ 1 think he is alieady disgusted,” said Catherine. 


48 


INTIIODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


Lady Davenport shook her head. 

“ He has no strength to resist temptation. lie makes no effort to 
redeem the past. You will think it odd, perhaps, my saying all this 
to you, but 1 have not done so without deliberation." 

lie told me you would do so," said Catherine, with a smile. 

Lady Davenport started, and a faint color rose to her pale cheek. 

‘‘ He told you so?" she repeated. " It is well, then, that 1 have 
spoken. 1 am reserved, as you see. Miss Johnstone. 1 make no 
confidences; and 1 talk as little about my neighbors' concerns as 
about those of my own family— in general. But since my eldest 
son seems disposed to remain at home for the present, it is right that 
1 should warn you. He is terribly in debt: and as it is impossible 
that his father can help him any more, 1 feel sure — though he has 
never said so to me— that it he could find any girl with a large 
fortune foolish enough to accept him he w'ould not scruple to marry 
her, howevei little he cared about her. That is the code of the set 
to which he belocgs- it is not thought cruel, or dishonorable. 1 
think it both. Such a marriage would make me wretched." 

The blood had slowly mounted to Catherine’s cheek. She looked 
straight at the map of the estate on the wall opposite, as she said, in 
rather a hard voice, 

" And you think that I might be foolish enough to marry him, 
though I knew he did not care about me?" 

‘‘ 1 am afraid that he might make you believe that he did," re- 
plied Lady Davenport in a low tone. 

The girl remained silent for a minute, her gaze still fixed upon 
the map. Then she turned the clear brown eyes full upon Lady 
Davenport, and said quickly, 

" Thank you for Ifie warning; but I fancy your fears are gound- 
less as re^^ards your son. 1 never have seen anything to make me 
believe that he had any such design as you suspect. He has never 
dropped a word that could lead me to suppose it." 

"lam glad to hear it— very glad." Lady Davenport spoke less 
composedly than usual; and her fingers twitched a little, as they lay 
folded in her lap. " 1 hope it may continue thus. At all events, 
it is better you should know the truth* as regards Roger at the very 
outset. You must trust to nothing he says about himself, poor boy I 
Perhaps he deceives himself— perhaps he will try and deceive yoii. 
He will tell you he is the victim of circumstances, and so on- that 
we do not understand him. "VYhat can 1 say? It is hard for a 
mother to speak against her own son. Hothing would make me do 
so but the peculiar circumstances in which 1 am placed toward you. 
He wishes to be on friendly terras,,with you, and lean not discourage 
it— 1, who desire the society of good women for my son. 1 can only 
warn you. He told you 1 should do so, because— he knows how 1 
feel on certain subjects. 1 need say no more." 

Presently Catherine observed abruptly, 

" 1 suppose you will go to Mrs. Courtland’s ball?" - 

" 1 can hardly avoid it, having promised to bring a party to it; 
but 1 shall see as little as possible of her in future. " She is— to say 
the least of it— the worst possible style, and 1 regret exceedingly her 
being so near a neighbor." 

" 1 do not know what is good style and what is bad," said Cath- 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


49 


crine with a smile. “1 suppose bad style is what men like, and 
good is what neglected women prefer. Is IVlrs. Latoiir good style?” 

” She is an exceedingly silly, vain, half-educated 'woman, but 
she is quite harmless in the sense in 'which Mrs. Courtland is not, I 
fear. She is a cousin of Sir Norman’s, and tiierefore 1 felt bound 
to ask her here once for Christmas.” 

” Of all your guests, Mrs. Hare is the one 1 like best. She is so 
good to me— and so amusing and interesting— but Lady Retford 
says—” 

‘‘Pray don’t listen to what my sister-in-law says. A woman 
separated from her husband is always in a false position— and Mrs. 
Hare has, unfortunately, no 'worldly wisdom. She says and does 
things which are sure to make her enemies. 1 an\ very fond of her; 
she has a fine, generous nature, and she has been hardly dealt with. 
Therefore 1 have always stood by her; but you must not suppose 
that 1 approve of her altogether— no. And her very brilliancy 
makes her a dangerous example. Pray remember that.” 

‘‘ Having no brilliancy, Ido not feel there is any danger, ’’laughed 
Catherine. ” The only thing in her 1 find infectious, is her enthu- 
siasm for what is noble, her scorn for wiiat is base, her compassion, 
for, and desire to help, what is suffering.” 

Then the two ladies went down to the library together. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Chuistmas came and passed, during wdiich Catherine’s acquaint- 
ance with Mrs. Hare ripened into intimacy, as it sometimes does in 
a country-house, where affinity or repulsion is quickly manifested. 
Miss Johnstone liked the society of the keen-witted poetess better 
than that of any one of the party; except the person whom she felt 
herself constrained, in a certain degree, to avoid. And, in society, 
Roger did not make any very obvious efforts to converse witn her. 
He generally contrived, however, more than once in the course of 
each day, that they should be together for a few minutes alone; and 
Mrs. Hare became cognizant of these apparently accidental meet- 
ings, in the shrubber}', or on the staircase, or in the stable, where 
Catherine frequently went to visit her horses. Rut for Lady Daven- 
port’s warning, it is certain that the girl, in her unconventional free- 
dom, would liave expressed a desire for billiards or lawn tennis 
every morning. As it was, she talked to Mr. Medway or Lord 
Windermere with some attempt at interest, whenever Roger entered 
the room, and twice sat down by Mrs. Hare on the sofa, when the 
young man’s eyes had invited her to a fauteuil at the opposite side 
of the fire. After these sacrifices, 'v\'hat further could be required 
of her? Could she help it, if he followed her to the stable, or the 
conservatory? 

Mrs. Hare’s beautiful velvet eyes noted all these things. 

It was New Year’s-day; and here was rain again. No one stirred 
out all the morning. The gong for luncheon brought the scattered 
party together. Mrs. Hare, who sat near Catherine, let fall, in her 
low silvery voice, some acute remarks on things in general, with the 
air of not perceiving their application in particular. At last, 


50 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY, 


“ 1 fancy you are not likely to mind a little rain?” she said, as 
they rose. ‘‘ Shall we go out, in spite of it? If any of the men 
choose to join us, they can; but we will not be dependent on them.” 

” 1 never am,” returned the girl, laughing. 

*‘Ah!” ejaculated Mrs. Hare, languidly, with a little mocking 
smile. ” It never does to boast. 1 hear you tell into a ditch the 
other day.” 

” Who told you? Mr. Holroyd, 1 suppose?” 

” No, that willowy boy— less to be depended on, ot the two— in a 
ditch, at all events.” 

” I was brought up to be independent of every one. If 1 had 
been alone, 1 should have leaped the ditch all right. It was these 
horrid petticoats— and the two men watching me.” 

The earnestness with which Catherine spoke, so unnecessary to 
the occasion, made Mrs. Hare, who was seldom more than half in 
earnest in conversation, smile again. 

” It is men watching us, my dear, that causes half our troubles in 
life. 1 wish one could forget them; but one can’t. We are ahvays 
trying to look nice before them — thinking about our petticoats, in 
short. ’ ’ 

” I’nr more afraid of women than men, as a rule,” returned 
Catherine. ‘‘ When they look one all over, it makes one feel un- 
comfortable: 1 know they’re criticising something. In short, I’m 
afraid 1 like men best.” 

Mrs. Hare leaned forward, and whispered, ” Don’t breathe it 
again, but so do 1.” 

A quarter of an hour later, the two ladies, in their ulsters, ap- 
peared in the hall. Most ot the party were still hanging about, 
meditating how to kill the wet afternoon. Mrs. Latour raised her 
bangled arms and dropped them on her embroidered skirts, with a 
prettj’’ affectation of amazement. 

‘‘ Going out, such a day as this! WTiy, it is pouring!” 

” Is it? Miss Johnstone and 1 are possessed with the demon of 
restlessness.” 

” Possessed with a demon? Oh! Mrs. Hare! And then there is 
the ball to-night. You’ll get red noses in the cold wind.” 

” They say that noses are worn red in Paris, now — ' Avec cette 
robe on porte une tigure.^e saison— le nez rouiie.' ” 

‘‘Oh! You don’t mean that? 1 can’t believe it. 1 am always 
so careful to powder my nose, if there is the least frost— particularly 
in the country. It is never so cold in the Necropolis.” 

‘‘ 1 should have expected it to be very cold there,” replied Mrs. 
Hare, demurely, ” but certainly one would not require powder.” 

There was a little suppressed titter, of which Mrs. Latour re- 
mained wholly unconscious: and the two ladies passed out under 
the porch. 

Mrs. Hare was really much interested in Catherine by this time, 
and felt that a stage had been reached in their intimacy, when she 
might, and indeed, ought, to give her a friendly warning. 

” How long have you been here now?” she began. 

■” Nearly two months.” 

“ Has Roger Davenport been here all that time?” 

“ Oh, dear no— not more than three weeks.” 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


51 


“ It is very seldom he lemains at home so long. Have you any 
idea what keeps him liere?" 

“ How can 1 tell? There has not been a party here lor a long 
time. 1 suppose lie is amused.” 

” He has an object in most that he does. His flirtation with Mrs. 
CouTtland is only a blind. 1 see through him.” 

” Do you?” said Catheiine, walking straight on, without looking 
at her companion, ‘‘lam not so clever.” 

‘‘You are not so old, my dear, and don't know men as 1 do. He 
wants to enlist your sympath}'^ — your interest — to make you believe 
that your influence might reform him — that he is longing to break 
away from the chain of Mrs. Courtland’s fascination, and that since 
he has known you, he sees that you may be his salvation — if you 
choose. Many girls are not proof against this sort of flattery; but 1 
should be grieved if you yielded to it.” 

‘‘ Why is it impossible it should be true?” returned the girl, sim- 
ply. ‘‘ No one will ever fall desperately in love with me— 1 know 
that; but supposing that Mr. Davenport became, by degrees, at- 
tached to me— supposing he gave proof of the strength of this at- 
tachment by an altered life — supposing he did break away from— 
from— all his old Labits, why should 1 not believe him?” 

‘‘ In the first place, he wili not break away from his old habits: he 
may pretend to do so, but he will not. And even if he were to do 
so, for a time, 1 should not believe in him. 1 should feel sure that 
he would slide back again, as soon as he had secured what he 
wanted.” 

‘‘ What right has one to say that of any human being?” returned 
Catherine, bluntly. 

‘‘ My dear, 1 have known him since he was a boy; and 1 have 
very quick instincts— sort of antennae, which detect at once what is 
antagonistic to my nature, when 1 come into contact with it. Roger 
is irredeemably bad.” 

‘‘ Rut Mr. Davenport may be antagonistic to you, without being 
irredeemably bad?” 

” Very smartly said, my dear; that emphasis upon the you was 
neat. Indeed,! have liked many a murien ; but he must have 
heart. I don’t care what his vices and follies are, if he is capable of 
caring for some one very much. Roger Davenport is not.” 

‘‘ Perhaps—” then she stopped shoit. 

‘‘You were going to say, perhaps he has not come across the right 
person yet? No; and, believe me, he never will. There will be a 
succession of Mrs. Courtlands— there will never be a deep life-long 
attachment. Let my experience be a warning. I was sanguine and 
imaginative, as you are, when I was n giil— ” 

‘‘ 1 am not imaginative,” interrupted Catherine quickly. 

” Well, you are attracted by good looks, and invest the possessor 
of them with qualities, perhaps, he has no claim to. 1 did so, 
when I married, and my life was ruined in consequence. I thought 
1 was going to reform a profligate— it would have ended in my be- 
coming -ah! well, 1 will not say what— if 1 had not separated from 
him. But you see what the result is? Do you think it is pleasant 
to be maligned, as I am?— to have no one to support or defend me 
in any difficulty? to be unable to marry, and yet to have no hus- 


52 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


band? Because I have spirits that rise in societ 5 % perhaps you think 
1 ara indiliereut? It is not so- take warning by me— marry the 
veriest lout in the world, it you can respect him — or, at least, if he 
has a heart. But make no delusions to yourself. Marriage won’t 
change the man who has not one generous or unselfish feeling.” 

The passionate woman’s nostrirwas dilated, and her lip quivered, 
as she spoke; and it was characteristic of her, that having been led 
to the utmost limits of what it was discreet to confide to a compara- 
tive stranger, and that stranger a girl, she presently exceeded those 
limits in reply to Catherine’s remark that ‘‘perhaps love was a 
series of delusions on both sides,” when she said: 

‘‘ The question is, do the delusions last? If they do, they become 
realities to you. If you can regard your husband, or your friend, 
with the same feelings, after some years of companionship or close 
intimacy, never mind if they are delusions; never mind if what ap- 
pears to you deep and thoughtful, charming or heroic, the world 
considers Very commonplace. What does it signify? without some 
delusions, life would be insupportable.” 

” Yes, but people change their delusions.” Catherine was glad 
to shift the ground of discussion; and did not see whither her objec- 
tion led. 

‘"The less they do so the happier for themselves. 1 have a friend 
of fifteen years’ standing — Sir Cliarles Wilverly. We have neither 
of us changed our delusions. 1 believe he has a conviction that I 
am the most delightful woman in the world, and I am under the 
impression that he has a fine mind, a noble character, and that he 
w’^ould go through fire and water to serve me. Of course I know 
what the world says. Of course, if 1 valued its opinion more than 
my friend, 1 should see less of him. As it is, 1 value my friend 
most. 1 consider him of more importance in my life. Perhaps that 
is my delusion, but I hope to retain it,” 

‘‘ I hope you may. 1 begin to think the world is monstrously 
hard upon every one.” 

‘‘ Yes, and this is the only question to ask one’s self in disregard- 
ing its opinion, ‘ Is this thing worth the sacrifice?’ Many so-called 
friendships are not. 1 think mine is.” 

Ko doubt this was hardly the language to hold to a young woman, 
unsophisticated in the world’s ways, and whose independence of 
character would naturally lead her to resist its unjust decrees. Pos- 
sibly Mrs. Hare’s quick perceptions had made her foresee that she 
would find ready sympathy in Catherine: possibly she had been led 
on by her gift of fluent utterance to speak of herself, whereas she 
had only meant, in the beginning, to speak of Roger. However 
this may be, Catherine was completely won over. ""She told Mrs. 
Hare that it she had a friend, she would certainly not give him up, 
on account of anything the world might say. She had just an- 
nounced this spirited sentiment, when they entered the Long Walk 
from a side path,' and found themselves face to face with Ylalcolm 
and Mr, Holroyd. 

The Long Walk was a straight alley, cut through a wood of old 
Scotch firs, whose network of branches was so closely interwoven, 
as to be alrnost impervious to the rain. The sandy foot-way, thickly 
carpeted with pine-needles, was as dry as at midsummer. 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


53 

^lalcolm sprung forward. “Is it not beautiful here?— like a 
cathedral— so still and solemn, with the rain driving through the 
woods outside? Oh! Mrs. Hare, what a charming ulster! so cJiic/ 
You are conning to walk with us, ain’t you?” 

Holroyd raised two fingers to his hat, in Austrian-military 
lashion, and stood still to let the ladies pass. 

, ;Mrs. 11 are shook the heavy drops from her umbrella, and closed 
it, saying: 

“ It is quite dry here: we can take a quarter-deck w^alk, up and 
down.” 

The path was narrow: it wrould have been difficult tor three to 
walk abreast: Mrs. Hare and Malcolm went forward, and Catherine 
found herself beside Holroyd. She could not pass him without a 
word: she could not but give him the option of W’alking beside her, 
should he be so minded. If he chose to remain rigid and unbend- 
ing, it should not be her fault: she, at least, would not be uncivil. 

“ Are you coming to the ball to-night, Mr. Holroyd?” 

“ Lady Davenport has signified her wish that I should go.” 

“ But yon had rathei not, I suppose? You despise such frivolous 
amusements?” 

“ 1 used to be fond of dancing once. Now it is different. I have 
not been inside a ball-room for j^ears.” 

“ Well, you will begin again to-night? You don’t mean to say 
you think yourself too old to dance?” 

“ 1 don’t think about it. If I wanted very much to dance, 1, 
should do so. 1 suppose some one would take pity on me. Happily 
1 have no desire to put their good-nature to that test.” 

“ Well, for my part, 1 think it w'ould only be civil if you asked 
me to dance with you.” 

Her kind heart prompted this unconventional rejoinder, for she 
fancied there was a tinge of bitterness in his speech. She w’as 
wrong: the man was inordinately proud; but there was no disposi- 
tion to complain of the position he voluntarily occupied. Hecolored; 
and replied, without looking at her, 

“You are very good, but 1 hope; 1 have too much knowledge of 
the world to intrude myself on the domain of others. You will be 
surrounded by younger and more appropriate [)artneTS in every re- 
spect.” 

She was piqued : he ought to have jumped at her gracious pro- 
posal. 

“ So you refuse? No one would have done so to me in Melbourne. 
There they would call it very ill-mannered, Mr. Holroyd.” 

“ Aifd 1 dare say they would be right. But my bad manners 
should be a sufficient reason for your not dancing with me. Y’ou 
come here to make acquaintance with the polished society of Eng- 
land. It would be a mistake to waste your time on me. Miss John- 
stone.” 

There was something in his thoughts — something which she felt 
to be contemptuous in his tone — which she dimly apprehended. 

“If 1 choose to make that mistake, you are not the one who 
should remind me of it. 1 think you are a very ili-naturefl man. 1 
am a stranger here, and you are much older than 1 am, and know 


54 


INTKODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


the world. You might he of great use to me in many ways, but — 

“I? How can 1 possibly be of use to you?" 

" By telling me things I am ignorant of. By giving me an honest 
opinion when 1 want one. But no; instead of that, you snub me 
w’^henever 1 speak to you. Of course 1 kuow that my conversation 
couldn’t possibly interest you — that you look upon me as little better 
than a barbarian, who has no knowledge of the world, but what she 
had gained through a little reading. But you might occasionally 
stoop from your superior heights of wisdom, and talk to me, instead 
of remaining stiff and gbim, as you do." 

For once he looked confused. 

"You have surely quite mistaken our positions. You came here 
with an object in view which you will, no doubt, speedily attain. 
The w^orld you covet will be at your feet. How can the opinion 
or advice of a man who does not belong to this fine society benefit 
you? If 1 told you it was rotten — that it worshiped nothing but the 
golden calf, would you believe me? You would reply' justly, that 
1 knew nothing of it. If you were a young man, I could be of use 
to you, for I Know men well, and the dangers that beset them. A 
young lady I can not help— any attempt to do so would be looked 
upon as intrusive and impertinent." 

" B}' whom, pray?" 

" By those, perhaps, whose opinion I am bound to consider." 

Catherine waited for tw^o or three minutes before she said any- 
thing. They walked on in silence. Mrs. flare and Malcolm had 
gained ground on them, and were quite out of ear-shot. 

" Mr. Holroyd, will you answer a question, if 1 ask you? It is 
only one of opinion — it compromises no one." 

" Let me hear what it is." 

" You have a.contempt forme — Isee it— because 1 want to go into 
a society to which 1 don’t belong — which 1 wasn’t born into. Is it 
not very natural? Why should you despise me? It 1 can open 
the door with my money, why shouldn’t I look in, and see if it isn’t 
more amusing than the stupid society 1 have been used to hitherto?" 

"If you sought the company of people better or cleverer than 
those you have knowm, 1 should commend you. As it is, 1 confess 
that 1 have no sympathy with your desire to enter into fashionable 
life. 1 dare say it is natural : everything struggles to get at the top 
nowada5^s: perhaps if 1 thought it was really ‘ the top ’ of the only 
ladder 1 care to scale, 1 should struggle too. As it is, the conversa- 
tions 1 occasionally hear do not inspire me with anj'^ lively ambition 
to penetrate further into the circle you are anxious to enter. So 
much as this I will acknowledge.” 

" You are a man, and have knocked about the world. It is all 
new to me. How am I to know what I prefer, if I don't see as 
much as I can? It sounds very fine to talk about my seeking the 
company of people better and cleverer than I am, but how am I to 
set about it? The first man I find who is cleverer (whether he is 
better or not is another matter) distinctly avoids me— will have noth- 
ing at all to say to me. Fashionable society may be very bad, but 
at all events, the men who belong to it don’t behave like that." 

" No; and if their company satisfies you, what can you want 
more?" A sarcastic smile played round his mouth as he uttered the 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


55 


'words. Then he grew grave, “ Accident has brought us to live 
in the same house together,” he continued. “ You would injure the 
cause you nave at present at heart, Miss Johnstone, that of ‘ getting 
on ’ in the world, of becoming a fashionable young lady — if we 
"were upon other than distant terms. 1 am regarded by the gilded 
youths who will soon be tlockiug round you — ” 

“ You mean the youths who want to be gilded.” 

” As not belonging exactly to the same species as themselves. They 
are gauzy little moths— and 1, a tough old horse fly. They can not 
wound me as long as 1 keep to mySelf, and do not attempt to touch 
their fruit and flowers. If I showed any disposition to do so. they 
would set all the wasps upon me— and 1 should deserve my late.” 

Mrs. Hare and Malcolm had turned at the end of the Long Walk, 
and now drew near. The lady addressed some remark to Mr. Hol- 
royd, and the tete-d-tete was broken. Malcolm fell back, and made 
irritating demands on Catherine’s attention. Had she observed the 
gorgeous colors of the wet blackberry leaves,* crimson, bronze, and 
orange, in thickets as they passed? Would they not make a beau- 
tiful trimming to a dress, frosted with silver? Did she remember a 
description of such many-dyed foliage by an American poet? Did 
she like American literature generally? 

He was, as Lady Retford fondly said, “ so wonderful at making 
conversation.” Catherine wished that he was dumb. She could 
not hear a word that was interchanged between the two in front, by 
reason of this garrulous youth. 


CHAPTER X. 

Two .more men arrived at Davenport that evening for the ball; 
Lord Mountjoy, and Mr. Thane, of the — th. The former was an 
amusing rattle, short and plain in person, loud in voice, and 
exuberant in manner, kind-hearted, and recklessly extravagant. The 
correct thing to say of him was that he was ” more his own enemy 
than any oneelse’s.” If his father. Lord Knaresborough, did not 
soon die, or Mountjoy marry an heiress, he must inevitably collapse. 

Charley Thane, as he was always called, was very popular among 
the set in which he lived, and outside of it had the reputation of 
giving himsel^greater airs than any man in London. In one sense 
this was undeserved. He was not of very exalted birth, nor was he 
distinguished for any conspicuous personal or mental gifts. But 
he was a brave soldier; having fought well in the Zulu War, for 
which he had volunteered, and thus proved himself to be something 
better than the carpet-knight he had been considered heretofore. He 
had an imperturbable temper, and believed implicitly in himself; 
though he never boasted, nor was guilty of any of the indirect arts 
of self-glorification. It is true he was what his friends called ” the 
coolest hand,” and angry old gentlemen of another school, ‘‘a 

■d d impudent puppy.” But it succeeded so well— things that 

would have been permitted to no one else were so freely forgiven in 
him— that the world came to look upon him as a privileged in- 
dividual. He never arrived at any country-house unaccompanied 
by his pet bull-dog, who slept in his room, and frightened all the 


56 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


liousemaids into fits by growling whenever they entered it. He 
gave particular instructions what sort of a carriage should be sent 
for him to the station— “ a brougham, if you please, 1 can’t stand 
any sort of open trap ’—and proclaimed, without compunction, in 
his low clear voice, that the champagne was corked, while all the 
elder men at table were smelling and sipping it in dubious silence. 
He smoked in his bedroom, and never came down to any meal till it 
was halt over; and yet when he appeared, though the mistress of 
the house did sometimes meditate angry remonstrance in her heart, 
there was an easy calm, a delighltul impassiveness about him, joined 
to his pleasant sinile and voice, which invariably disarmed her. 

The three young men were smoking together in the billiard-room, 
before dinner. Their conversation, chiefly as to racing, and bets 
consequent thereon, would have no interest for us. A few words, 
however, interchanged before they separated to dress, threw some 
light on the respective views of each. 

Thane was speaking. 

“ What do you mean 1o do, Roger? Throw the sponge up?” 

” I suppose 1 must marry. There’s nothing else left.” He said 
this calmly, without a shade of change on his countenance. 

‘‘ Find me a little girl with money, that 1 can like, and I’ll do the 
same to-morrow,” cried Mountjoy. ” But I’ll be hanged if I’ll sell 
myself to some ugly devil. 1 don’t expect to be spooney exactly, 
I’m not a romantic cove, but I’ll be shot if I tie myself for file to 
some woman 1 never could get fond of—” 

“You’d get fond of any woman— you’re of an affectionate dis- 
position,” replied Roger, with a slightly contemptuous smile, as he 
threw away the end of his cigar. 

“ What is this girl here like? this Miss Johnstone?” asked Thane. 

“ She isn’t little. She won’t suit Mountjoy. She ain’t bad-look- 
ing, as lieiresses go, but is a difficult fish to hook, requires a deal of 
play. If my mother wasn’t against me, 1 shouldn’t find it hard. 
As it is, it will be a long, tedious business; and the worst of it is, I 
can’t afford the time.” 

“ How long can you give her to become hopelessly spooney on 
you, eh?” laughed Mountjoy. 

“ "Well, if I don’t do something in the course of the next three or 
four weeks, 1 must cut it. There’ll be seveial writs out against me. 
Shall have to take refuge at Monaco, 1 suppose, aj^d if the luck’s 
against me there — ” he broke off, with a slight shrug of his shoul- 
ders. “ Deuced unnatural of my mother not to help me in my diffi- 
culties, ain’t it? Parents don’t understand their duties in the pres- 
ent day.” 

“ Why! you ungrateful beggar, Roger,” cried Mountjoy, “ hasn’t 
your governor pulled you through, over and over again, till he could 
do so no more?” 

“Yes, because he has his own little games, which are expensive. 
Don’t you think at fifty-eight it is time qiihl se range ? Then my 
mother — her Puritanical notions of what is wrong, her absurd hign- 
flown ideas about marriage, belong to another age. It’s no use 
arguing with her; if she takes a thing into her head, she sticks to it. 
She’ll put a spoke in my wheel as to marrjung this girl, if she can.” 

“ It is working against Providence, who clearly brought her here 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


57 

for your especial benefit,” laughed Thane. ‘‘But it is time to 
dress. Show me my room, Roger. 1 hope it is to the south; 1 
can’t bear a north aspect.” 

” Let me give you one piece of advice,” said Roger, as he showed 
his friend upstairs. ” Don’t touch the governor’s champagne, it is 
beastly stufit, sweet. He doesn’t know good wine when he tastes 
it. 1 have had a tew dozen sent down for my own private, drink- 
ing. I’ll tell my man to help you too; you’re safe with tlie claret 
after dinner, it’s Lafitte ’54, and was laid down in ’55, after he 
married.” 

At dinner Catherine sat between IMountjoy and Sir Charles Wil- 
verly, who took her in to dinner. She had never looked so well. 
Lady Davenport had given special pains to Catherine’s appearance. 
The simple white satin dress, the tern-leaves in her dark hair, the 
necklace, ot fine pearls, with pear-shaped pendants, suited her to per- 
fection. She was one of those women who gain by wearing little or 
no color. The- rich tones of her skin, the dark brilliancy other 
hair, her size and build, were at a disadvantage when accompanied 
by strong contrasts of tint, and the elaborate details of tiuffiness 
which become diminutive or attenuated women. 

She made a feeble attempt to converse with Sir Charles at the be- 
ginning of dinner, but Mrs. Hare sat on the other side of him: it was 
not to be looked for that Catherine should receive more than a lim- 
ited share ot his attention,. Before long the two friends were en- 
grossed in each other, as though they had not met for months. 
Catberine thought, ‘‘ How very odd, and how delightful to have so 
much to say to some one you see every day of your life. I wonder 
if it would be the same if they were married?” 

Mountjoy, liberated, after the first ten minutes, from the necessity 
of talking to Lady Retford, whom he had taken in to dinner, turned 
round and devoted himself to Catherine. He found her, as he ex- 
pressed it afterward, ‘‘a ripping girl— no humbug— so jolly and 
natural — none of your stuck-up heiresses.” He, who only admired 
little women, was almost inclined to forgive her size. He was too 
loyal to thinlc of interfering with Roger; but the idea did certainly 
cross, his mind, toward the end of dinner, that it his friend failed, 
the f uture Earl ot Knaresborough might succeed, and that he might 
possibly in time grow fond of this cheery young w'oman, it he set 
his mind to it. 

As to Catherine, she was amused, and a little astonished. The 
freedom of manners, the chaff, the slang, in combination wdth that 
undefinable something which stamps a man who is used to good 
society, w'as a new experience. She had seen nothing like it in Mel- 
bourne, nor in her residence in Bayswater: and the young men who 
had been to Davenport since her arrival had all been coloilcss, and 
commonplace. She had believed that the suave refinement, the im- 
passive expression, amounting almost to indifference, of Roger, must 
characterize all our jeunesse doree. This red-faced little lord, with 
his twinkling eyes, and hearty enjoyment of a joke, entertained 
her: she thought she should prefer him gretitly to the other new 
man opposite, wdio looked so self-satisfied, as he sauntered in, after 
the fish had been removed, sunk into a chair beside IMrs. Latour, 
and cast a mild glance, devoid of contrition or of curiosity, round 


58 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


the table. In consequence of his non-appearance, the lively lady, to 
whose lot he would naturally have fallen, had been relegated to 
Roger, who made pantomimic signals to Catherine that he was 
bored to death. Then Thane sat down, and Mrs. Latour turned and 
opened her fire upon him instantly. Catherine overheard with 
amusement the following little dialogue; for Wilverly was already 
absorbed in Mrs. Hare’s conversation, and Mountjoy was still doing 
some duty-talk with Lady Retford. 

“ You’ve missed the soup — and it’s turtle!” 

Oh! They won’t treat me like a naughty child, and deprive me 
of it, will they?” 

” 1 don’t know. You deserve it, because you were to have taken 
mein.” 

‘‘ Am 1 not sufficiently punished? Here’s the soup — and, con- 
found it! — it’s perfectly cold.” (Turning to a footman) ‘‘ Can’t 
you get me some hot soup?” 

There was a slight pause. Mrs. liatour looked pensive. ” I 
never can understand how there can be so much turtle-soup, when 
there are so tew turtle-doves. Can you?” 

The Guardsman’s eyes looked up, mildly expostulating. 

” Don’t. It you put such difficult questions, you will give me 
an indigestion.”' 

“ Isn't Lady Davenport’s tiara magnificent? Mr. Davenport 
calls it, ‘ the family tender ’—isn’t that wicked? Do you know 
what tiara means? Is it named after any king?” 

The Guardsman replied gravely, ” Of course— a great Irish king. 
You’ve heard of ‘ the harp that once through Tiara’s halls.’ ” 

At this moment Mountjoy turned and addressed Catherine: and 
the rest of tlie colloquy opposite was lost to her. 

For the first lime tor years, Lady Davenport wore the family jew- 
els. The famous set of sapphires and diamonds which had adorned 
the heads and throats of successive Lady Davenports for many gen- 
erations, and which, but for their being strictly entailed, would 
have been sold long since, saw the light once more. The poor lady 
sighed as she put them on that night. They were valued at £12,- 
000. The burden of so many troubles— Sir Norman’s debts and 
Roger’s— might be lightened, and the estate relieved of some por- 
tion of its heavy mortgages, if these useless jewels could be soldt 
Rut it might not be. And so Sir Norman had brought them down 
from the bank a few days before, and at his request, on Lady Dav- 
enport’s reappearance in the world to-night, they w’ere taken from 
the safe, in her bedroom, to adorn Mrs. Courtland’s ball. 

"When Catherine went up to her room after dinner, she found a 
white bouquet of rare exotics on the table. The hot-houses at 
Davenport had long been done aw^ay with. 

” Where did these come from?” she asked her maid. 

The reply was that the box had just arrived by the last train from 
London, with instructions outside that it was to be opened immedi- 
ately. Catherine felt a pleasurable excitement at the receipt of these 
flowers which it was useless to conceal. She had been schooling 
herself for the last two days, to turn her thoughts resolutely away 
from Roger; and now she found herself saying ” They must be 
from him!” But what course ought she to pursue regarding them?! 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


59 


If she taxed him 'with seoding the flowers, and he denied it, she 
would feel awkward. She went down-stairs, undecided as to what 
to do. 

Lady Retford stood waiting, ready-cloaked, in the hall, with some 
of the men, 

“ Gracious! That bouquet must have cost a fortune, Miss John- 
stone. You must have sent to London for it?” 

‘‘No, 1 did not, and 1 have no idea where it came from.” 

‘‘ Haven’t you? Then you must be very dense, my dear.” Here 
she scre'wed up her eyes, and laughed. ‘‘1 can make a shrewd 
:guess. ” She leaned forward and whispered, ‘‘ My scapegrace nephew, 
who has two ‘button-holes’ sent him every day 'throughout the 
year, won’t allow the girl whom he secretly admires more than any 
one to appear at the ball wihout a bouquet — whatever it may cost.” 

Catherine would have acted indifference, if she could: she even 
murmured something about its being ‘‘ a pity he should have been 
so extravagant:” but the little smile at the corner of her mouth be- 
trayed her gratification; and it was not lost upon Lady Retford. 

An omnibus and two carriages drove the party to Brookwood. 

Catherine "was not in the same conveyance with Roger, and did 
jQOt see him till they met in the ball-room: where, for a country 
gathering, an unusual number of smart London people were 
assembled. 

Mrs. Courtland, ” exquisitely un-dressed,” as some one described 
her, and carrying a huge bouquet of yellow roses — received Cathe- 
rine with great effusion. 

‘‘ 1 want to introduce you to the Duchess of Deal, Miss John- 
stone, she is dying to make your acquaintance — and her son. Lord 
Barrencourt — you will find him so nice— only a little shy — you 
must draw him out— now do try.” 

The Duchess of Deal was a lady still young enough to dance, and 
to commit many follies, among which the losing of very large sums 
yearly in betting and gambling was the one which most seriously 
affected Ilis Grace. He was very poor; to maiutain his position in 
life he had indulged in some speculations which had been disas- 
trous; and he had several children. Lord Barrencourt was a young 
man of ^unexampled dullness. He was not vicious, nor even un- 
amiable; seen a long way off, he might almost be called good-look- 
ing, but he was of unwholesome aspect when near, sleepy, bilious, 
and ponderously slow. The girl w’ho married him would do so solely 
to become a future duchess, and she must bring a solid and con- 
siderable fortune with her. That girl had not yet been found. 

He was brought up to Catherine just at the moment that Roger 
and the rest of the Davenport party entered the ball-room. Mrs. 
Courtland turned to receive them. Lord Barrencourt stood impend- 
ing over Catherine and blinking at her, speechless, while she, entirely 
indifferent as to whether he spoke or not, watched with keen in- 
terest Mrs. Cour Hand’s reception of her guests. She is shaking his 
hand — she leans a little forward and says something to him in a low 
voice— he smiles — and whatever his thoughts may be, his smile is 
always beautiful. Then his eyes rest upon her white shoulders, 
and travel on to her bouquet of roses. Did he send her that? thinks 


60 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


Catherine. If so, she hopes that hers may have come from any one 
rather than from him. 

She was roused from her speculations by the sleepy young man’s 
asking her to dance. She answered with a start: 

“Not the first; the second it you like it.” 

Koger was coming up to her — she felt certain of it, though her 
back was now turned toward him. She did not start when she 
heard his soft voice beside her, asking if he might have this qua- 
drille. She shook her head: 

“You come too late. I am engaged for two dances.” 

“ To that great oaf, Barrencourt?” 

“ No; 1 divide my benefits — as you do, perhaps?” 

This with a quick tentative glance upward, and a wavering smile. 

“ What do you mean?” 

“ That you are the most gallant of men, 1 suspect. You scatter 
roses with one hand, orchids and lilies with the other— is it not so?” 

Oh, most foolish of inexperienced maids, to betray thy jealousy 
thus! Roger’s spirits, beneath that passionless brow, calm smile, 
and unrufiied shirt-front, rose quickly. Success was not as remote 
as he had feared. 

“No, 1 am not gallant; and as to scattering flowers, 1 assure you 
that is not in my line.” 

“ I ought to feel doubly flattered, 1 suppose, if 1 am right in be- 
lieving that it is you 1 have to thank for this bouquet?” 

“Iwish you had to thank me tor something more lasting; but 
oblige me by saying nothing about it.” 

“ Why? Do not gentlemen often send bouquets to ladies ia 
England?” 

“Not unless they are particularly interested in them.” 

The girl looked straight into his blue eyes, and then, with a changed 
manner, said, 

“ It is good of your to be interested in me; but the interest, 1 am 
afraid, would not stand the test of much sacrifice.” 

“ Suppose you try,” he said in his sw^eet, low voice. 

She shook her head. 

“ No, I have no right, on our short acquaintanceship, to do so. 
It 1 ever get to know you much better — ” 

The remainder of her reply was cut short by Mountjoy’s coming 
up to claim her hand. The quadrille w'as forming. 

“ Roger, old boy, get a partner, and be our ns-a-vis.''* 

He irave her a look, which meant to express, “ You drive me to 
it; it is against my wish. But at least 1 shall be opposite you,” 
then walked up to Mrs. Courtland. 

“ 1 have refused four men. 1 declared 1 was not going to dance 
this, but — ” and she took his arm. 

“ It is as good as a comedy,” said Mrs. Hare to Wilverly, as they 
stood up at the side of the quadrille, “ to watch these people, and 
see their different little games. Miss Johnstone is a dear, clever 
girl, and 1 am really fond of her. 1 have given her a warning, but 
when was a w’arniug ever of use to any one? If 1 am not mistaken 
she will fall a prey to Roger Davenport.” 

“ Of the tw'o, she had better take that fool, Barrencourt. lie is 
harmless, at least— or Mountjoy. Tliey both want to marr}-^ money.” 


lisTUODL'CED TO SOCIETY. 


G1 


“ She is ambitious, perhaps, and yet she would not have either 
of them, 1 think. She has a strong sense of humor; it keeps peo- 
ple from many follies. Unfortunately there is nothing about Roger 
Davenport that is ridiculous. That veneer of high-breeding and his 
extraordinary good looks have an attraction for most women — 
especially for an Australian girl, who has probably never seen a man 
of this stamp before." 

" Do you think Mis. Courtland will ever let him out of her 
clutches? 1 believe she would make any sacrifice for that fellow. 
He is the only one she ever really cared for. " 

‘‘ She can’t prevent his marrying, you know, because he is quite 
incapable of any deep strong passion: and, indeed, human beings 
are such strange complex machines, that 1 don’t feel sure that she 
w'ould not encourage his marrying ‘ advantageously,’ as it is called. 
1 am told that she said to some one the other day, what a good thing 
it would be for Roger to marry Miss Johnstone — but, of course, that 
may only have been said to throw dust in our eyes." 

" She reminds me of the old comecl}^ ‘ She would and she 
wouldn’t.’ She has introduced Barrencourt, you will observe, in 
hopes that the strawberry-leaves may tempt the girl. Roger, 1 sup- 
pose, is playing one woman against the other. He thinks jealousy 
may stimulate the heiress to decide in his favor, and carry him oft 
from her rival. He knows your sex," laughed Sir Charles quietly. 

Mrs. Hare did not laugh. “ You are rigbt as to him, 1 believe. 
1 think he is the worst man 1 ever knew, not excepting my own 
husband. But if this girl accepts him, as 1 am afraid she will, it 
will not be from such miserable petty motives, but because she loves 
him. And love is blind, you know." 


CHA.PTER XI. 

Half an hour later, Philip Holroyd stood with folded arms, lean- 
ing against a pillar, at the end of the room. He had kept aloof from 
the crowd, to which he w’^as a stranger; and yet more than one per- 
son had observed with curiosity and interest tiiat thoughtful face, 
and tall military figure. Who was he? fie seemed to know no one: 
and yet a close observer would have seen that he was not an unin- 
terested watcher of the scene before him. Catherine and Roger were 
dancing; and Holroyd’s eyes never left them, except to look occa- 
sionally at Mrs. Courtland, who was waltzing with Thane, and 
who, while she kept up an animated conversation with her partner, 
glanced restlessly round the room, and tried after each turn to stop 
close to where Roger and Catherine stood. This maneuver was de- 
feated each time, in the most natural way, by Roger W'hirling his 
partner oft, and halting eventually at the further end of the i^omt 
He let tall a word, he gave a little smile of reluctant adieu— but he 
invariably moved away from his fair hostess. Presently the w'altz 
came to an end, and Roger took Catherine into the conservatory. 
The solitary man left his post too; but not to follow them. He 
sauntered through the rooms, and came upon Lady Davenport, 
seated among a group of London ladies, and wearing an aspect of 
extreme weariness. One of the group was saying, in so shrill a voice 
that Holroyd heard every word,- 


62 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


“ Your heiress, dear Lady Davenport, is a fj^reat success— a mry 
great success — positively handsome, which no one the least expected! 
As the duchess said just now, ‘ She is cheap at the money!’ Isn’t 
that like the duchess? She is so droll!” 

” Is she? 1 don’t know her,” said Lady Davenport coldly. ‘‘ Mr. 
Holroyd, will you give me your arm, to get a cup of tea? 1 suppose 
it is living so long out of the world,” she continued as they moved 
away, ‘‘ but all this is indescribably tiresome to me. 1 wonder how 
1 shall ever do my duty as a chaperon through a London season?” 

” Perhaps you may not be called upoc.” 

” What do you mean?” 

“ That Miss Johnstone has so many admirers, she may possibly 
choose one — and save you further trouble.” 

” For her sake, 1 hope not. A wmman with such a fortune is in 
sad peril. 1 hope she will not decide rashly. 1 shall do my best to 
prevent her.” 

‘‘ 1 believe you will. Lady Davenport, but you will not succeed.” 
They wTie standing near the tea-table as he spoke, and handed a 
cup to her; but something in his tone arrested her attention; she 
looked up into his face, and the intensity of its expression startled 
her. How should this girl's choice, for good or evil, stir that deep, 
unseen well of passion which she had often surmised lay hidden 
beneath his calm exterior? 

” You are a judge of character,” she said at last, after drinking 
her tea in silence. ” Tell me, from what you have seen of Miss 
Johnstone, the impression she makes on you.” 

He involuntarily started, and colored. 

I— my opportunities of studying her character have been limited. 
And yet — 1 will not deceive you. Lady Davenport— why should 1? 
1 have a very distinct impression of her character. Her heart is 
warm, her instincts noble, her nature frank, fearless and generous; 
but her bringing up among vulgar people has tainted her. Her 
aspirations are limited to success in fashionable life. She has no 
judgment — no discrimination, to detect the true from the false. She 
hungers after admiration, and thiists for the amusements of the 
great world, which have hitlierto been denied her. And' she thinks 
that happiness is to be found in a marriage out of her own sphere. 
She will awake to find her bitter mistake, and be a sadder and a 
wiser woman.” 

‘‘ That does not necessarily follow, if she marries a good man, 
who really loves her, and not her money,” said Lady Davenport 
slowly. ” That is possible: is it not?'’ 

“ Of course, it is possible; but you, yourself, admitted that a 
woman with such a fortune is in great peril. Men of the higher 
6tamp shrink from the imputation of being fortune-hunters; and they 
will avoid her.” 

“ At all events, those who have no chance of success, do well to 
do so. I have done, Mr. Holroyd. Let us return to the other 
room.” 

Tne ball was kept up with great spirit, and Catherine, who frankly 
enjoyed her success, and also frankly enjoj’-ed' dancing, for its own 
sake, was almost perfectly happy during the greater part of the 
evening. Every one had been kind to her; the duchess had invited 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


. C3 

her to Barrencoiirt; Roger had devoted himself far more to her than 
to Mrs. Courthind, and had complimented her upon the effect of her 
first appearance in the world. Once more — in spite of all her wise 
resolves— a little flattering hope arose in her heart that he liked her 
for horselt, independently of her money; that she was gradually ob- 
taining an influence over him, and detaching him from a danger- 
ous flirtation. His eyes told her as much— his eyes, and the intona- 
tion of his low regretful voice, when he said, 

“ Now I must leave 3mu. The pleasure of the evening is over for 
me. You are engaged I know for everything, and 1 have no right 
to keep fellows away who are worthier of you in every respect. I 
shall go and try and distract my thoughts by a game of cards — for I 
shall dance with no one else to-night." 

This was literally true; though he sat out for half an hour, in a 
dark corridor with Mrs. Courtland. Then the supper-room was 
thrown open, and she was carried off by the duke. Roger saw the 
heiress go in with Barrencoiirt, and smiled to himself. " The more 
she sees of that ass, the better for me." He sauntered on into the 
card-room, which was at the further end of a long suite. 

Two rubbers were going on, and a few men stood round, watch- 
ing the play. At one whist table four old country squires were vio- 
lating every rule of Cavendish’s, and laughing over their shilling 
points in a way to exasperate any serious devotee of the game. At 
the other, a younger quartet of London men were playing pound 
points, with five pounds on the rubber; and the interest which gath- 
ered round this game was justly due to the science of the antago- 
nists. Roger was one of these four; and when, at the end of a quar- 
ter of an hour, two of the players, rose, proposed to the remaining 
man that they should have a game of ecarte. 

A small knot of by-standers watched the duel, as they had watched 
the double encounter of skilled tacticians. Roger Davenport had 
the reputation of being an exceptionally fine one. It was consid- 
ered to be instructive to observe his play. 

At first he lost: the cards were against him; but the inscrutable 
calm of his face remained unruffled^. Only a close observer could 
detect that he was a shade paler than usual. There was such an 
observer in Philip Holroyd, who had entered the room just before 
Roger’s luck changed. He accidentally took up a position at Roger’s- 
side, and a little behind him. Holroyd had formerly played a great 
deal: he still occasionally had a game with Sir Norman, or took a 
hand at whist to make up a rubber. He watched the present game 
— or rather he watched Roger’s play, and every movement of his. 
hands, with great attention for nearly an hour. At the end of that 
time, the young man rose, a winner of nearly a hundred pounds. 
And Philip, with a knit brow, troubled and perplexed, left the room 
quickly. 

He felt very nearly sure that he had detected Roger once in cheat- 
ing: that he had seen him produce the king from his sleeve. He,, 
moreover, felt almost certain that the trick had been repeated ; but 
though he had not taken his eyes oft the young man, he had found 
it impossible to corroborate this belief. If there was false play, it 
was effected with such marvelous dexterity as to elude his vigilance. 
What could he do? Nothing. Plad he felt absolutely positive ot 


64 


IXTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


this, his course would have been plain in his own eyes. lie was not 
a man to shrink from any duty however paintul, or involving what- 
ever consequences. He would have taxed the young man with his 
crime, and have insisted, on pain of public denunciation, on his 
making restitution of his ill-gotten gains, by some means or other. 
But as it was, he knew his former pupil's extraordinary effrontery 
and coolness, under all circumstances, only too well. He would 
meet Holroyd’s charge by quietly demanding how his brother’s 
tutor dared to insult him so grossly, as to suspect him of foul play? 
What witnesses had he? Would he even swear that he, Holroyd, 
had seen this, beyond the possibility of deception? He could not so 
swear. And then Roger would bring up the two men who had 
played with him, one after the other, to declare that they never, for 
a moment, suspected Sir Norman Davenport’s eldest son of cheat- 
ing. No; though the fire kindled within him, Philip Holroyd felt 
that, for the present, it was impossible he should speak. 

He would gladly have walked home, but it was snowing fast, and 
he had no means of getting away until the carriages were ordered. 
A cotillon, the great event of the evening, forw^ich Mrs. Courtland 
had made elaborate preparations, sending to Paris for the presents, 
and devising all manner of new" figures — was in full sw"ing. It was 
nearly three o’clock, but there seemed no diminution of energy, no 
immediate chance of the festivities being brought to a close. He 
stood in a doorway^ outside the circle, a prey to sad and bitter 
thoughts, as his eyes followed Catherine wheeling round first with 
one man and then with another. 

Roger Davenport is standing not far from him, also in the outer 
circle. Catherine, who has looked round the room in vain more than 
once, suddenly perceives him, and her eye, in sweeping round, has 
also caught siglit of Holroyd’s stern face. She has not seen him be- 
fore all the evening; she has been too fully occupied, too much 
amused, to remember the man w"ho has met all her advances to 
friendliness so ungraciously. But now her kind nature prompts her 
to show him that she bears no malice for his harsh W"ords. She w"ill 
drag him from his retirement, she will make him dance, as she de- 
clared to him she would. A figure has just begun in which the 
lady selects two men; and, giving them the name of fiowers, asks 
another lady which she prefers, and waltzes herself with the re- 
jected one. Catherine beckons to Roger and he instantly obeys the 
summons. She does the same to Holroyd, and he shakes his head. 
She insists— she w"ill take no denial. He is in no humor to dance; 
his thoughts are otherwise occupied, it is eminently distasteful to 
him to be dragged out before all these people; but it is not worth 
discussion ; he goes forward and takes the hand she holds out. She 
asks what flow^er he chooses to be? He replies, with a grim smile, 

A Thistle,” whereon Roger declares that he must be the Sham- 
rock, for she is certainly the Rose betw^een them. Mrs Latour, to 
whom Catheiine goes up, selects the Shamrock, and the Rose and 
Thistle are left to waltz together. Who could have believed that he 
danced so well? He is, be3mnd doubt, the best waUzer in the room. 
The girl finds herself swept along under his firm grasp and svvitt 
guidance in a more masterly and graceful manner than that of any 
of her othei partners, not excluding Roger Davenport. She has not 


INTRO DrC’?!) TO SOCIKTY. 


05 


I’ecovered her astonishment when slie is brought up siuldenly, with- 
out slackening speed or wavering, opposite her chair; he clicks liis 
heels in Austrian fashion together, hows, and retires, before she has 
found a word to say. 

After this, she seeks him, but in vain, each time she hsis to choose 
her cavaliers. He has left the ball-room, and she sees him no more 
until they are stepping into the omnibus on their return home. 

IMrs. Courtland pressed Miss Johnstone’s hand more affectionate- 
ly at parting, and leaning forward said, 

“ You are going to be asked to Barrencourt. * 1 am so glad. Y"ou 
ought to be in th&best set, you know.” 

” Do you mean that the one I am in is not the best?” 

Lowering her voice, the little lady said, 

“ Well, the men, of course, are excellent; but the Windermeres 
are — well, they are fogies — you understand? and Mrs. Latour and 
jMrs. Hare would never be asked to Barrencourt.” 

” Then, as regards Mrs. Hare, the loss is Barrencourt’s — that is 
all I have to say.” 

” Lord Barrencourt told me he thought you the best-dressed girl 
in the room, and that was a great deal from him, I assure you.’' 

” 1 don’t doubt it,” laughed Catherine, ” judging by his conver- 
sation. Good-night. 1 have enjoyed my ball immensely.” 

” So glad. You have been an immense success. By the bye, 
where did 3’’Ou get that lovely bouquet? 1 suppose one of your 
adorers sent it you.” 

” 1 have none.” 

She blushed as she spoke, for though she believed what she said, 
sue felt the impression her reply conveyed might not be a true one. 
But the bad taste of the question, under the circumstances, made 
her angry, and she held that she was justified in not satisfying ]\lrs. 
Coiirtland’s curiosity. 

Lady Davenport was waiting for her, the carriage had been an- 
nounced. and hurriedly shaking Mrs. Courtland’s hand, she left 
her. 


CHAPTER XII. 

We have regarded Philip liolroyd hitherto chiefly from outside, 
as he appeared to those who sat at meat with him, and more pai 
ticularly as he appeared to one person. It is necessar}’^, now, in 
order rightly to comprehend his conduct and its results, that we 
should examine the inner man unseen, unsuspected by most. All 
knew, indeed, that here was an ire's will. Neither Sir Norman's 
offer of double pay nor Lady Davenport’s entreaties had prevailed, 
six years before, to alter his determination alter he had resolved to 
throw up the tutorship of their eldest son. When he undertook 
the charge of Malcolm, a few months since, it was only upon con- 
dition that his law should be absolute and beyond appeal. What 
n(»ne, except, possibly, Ladj- Davenport, surmised, was that under 
that cold exterior were violent jvassions, solely restrained by the ex- 
ercise of this will, fl hat it had not always been thus, was known to 
those who were ac(juaiuted with the history of his early life. He 
had loved, he had fought, and he had, as it is called, ruined his 

o 


06 


INTKOnrCED TO SOCTETT. 


prospects in life.*’ In quitting the army and adopting a new career, 
he had sworn to keep under subjection “ the old man;” but this con- 
quest had only been gained by extraordinary vigilance and self-con- 
trol. 

Before Catherine Johnstone arrrived at Davenport, the circum- 
stances under which she Nvas to become an inmate there were made 
known to Holroyd, chiefly through Malcolm’s garrulity. They 
created an unfavorable impression upon. a mind, one of the main 
failings of which was its readiness to conceive strong prejudice. 
This colonial young woman, discontented with her natural sphere, 
and seeking admission into higher ones by virtue of her wealth, was 
eminently repellent to him. IShe must be vulgar-minded, purse- 
proud, and ill-educated. She came: and he declared to himself that 
Ids prejudice was confirmed. She was all that he liked least in 
woman; large, and dark, and bold— for so he called her frankness, 
and freedom from self-consciousness. Had she been small, and shy, 
he would -have forgiven her, with a contemptuous shrug, probably; 
and she would not have occupied his thoughts for five miiiuies in any 
given day thereafter. As it was, in spite of avoidance and studied 
coldness on his pari, in spite of his disappioval of some things tliat 
she said and did, in the teeth of all his prejudices, she interested him 
daily more and more. When she was present, though he might be 
at the further end of the room, or apparently absorbed in his book, 
no MTord, no movement of hers escaped him. He asked himself, v^hy 
was it? He tried to argue himself out of this irrational fascination; 
but here the limits of his powerful will were reached. He could say, 
“ i. will keep aloof. She shall never think that 1 am one of the 
wretched pack of hunters who will very soon be pursuing her. She 
shall never guess the power she might have over me.” And he 
could act in accordance with this resolve. What he could not do 
was to prevent Catherine Johnstone being the subject that more and 
more engrossed his thoughts, to the exclusion of every other interest. 

No one as keen-sighted and as interested in observing Catherine 
as Holroyd was, could fail to detect that Roger’s superficial charm 
had dazzled her, to some extent. The young man’s tactics puzzled 
him. He entertained the worst opinion of his former pupil, who.se 
conduct, he felt sure, would be utterly unscrupulous in this matter. 

But, as tar as Holroyd could see. Roger tor some time made 
no effort to ingratiate himself with the heiress; recklessly parading, 
on the contrary, his allegiance to Mrs, Courtland. What was his 
game? The girl was captivated by his manly beauty, his air of high- 
breeding, his charming voice, his perfect self-possession. Was it to 
throw her off her guard that ,Jie paid her so little attention? that he 
allowed his personal charm to work its effect silently, unobtrusively? 
Holroyd had not a doubt that Roger had the girl’s money in view. 
He was not likely to capture an English heiress, or to have such an- 
other chance as this. Holroyd did full justice to the young man’s 
evil ability. He perceived that the net was being adroitly cast round 
the girl; far more adroitly than by a desperate onslaught 

The irritation which he had long felt, had for some days past been 
merged in a nobler and more passionate commiseration. It was no 
use pretending to believe that the girl deserved her fate; that if she 
was deceived in Roger, she had herself courted such deception. He 


INTKODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


67 

acknowledged to himself now that he had misunderstood her char- 
acter. Her brigEt intelligence, her quick perceptions, on the one 
hand, were counterbalanced, as it were, on the other, by her igno- 
rance of the world, and her extraordinary transparency and frank- 
ness. He had little believed it possible he could ever again be as 
interested in any woman, as he was in this girl; and the interest 
grew: it was not mere curiosity; he found it absorbing him more 
and more. It could not signify to him — he repeated to himself — 
what her choice was in life. It ought to be, it must be, a matter of 
indifference whom she married. Only he made this reservation. In 
heaven’s name, let it not be Roger. 

Two questions of a very different nature, but which he found 
equally difficult to answer, produced a state of ferment in his mind, 
to which it had long been a stranger. He was used to arrive at his 
decisions rapidly, to suffer no perplexity, to admit of no considera- 
tion. It was not so now; how could he prevent Catherine’s falling 
a prey to one every way unworthy of her, taking the most lenient 
view of him, without being disloyal to the family of which IIol- 
royd was a member? How could he, who had an unaffected regard 
for Lady Davenport, take advantage of his position of trust, to be- 
tray what he had learned of her son’s character, and thus destroy 
that son’s hope of making a rich marriage? A rich marriage! How 
horrible the expression sounded in his ears! And yet it was only 
thus that Roger regarded the entrapping of an honest- hearted, inno- 
cent girl. Holroyd knew this, but his tongue was tied; and though 
she should come to him for advice, as she had suggested doing two 
days since, must he not remain silent, as much from a sense of 
honor as from the consciousness that his antagonism to Roger might 
now be tinged by jealousy? He could come to no conclusion that 
satisfied him. 

The other question which recurred constantly to his mind tne 
morning after the ball was, how ho should act with regard to 
Roger? The moment was passed for taxing him with the commis- 
sion of an act, which, if proved, would effectually shut the doors of 
society upon him. Holroyd had almost a moral certainty that the 
young man had cheated; it might be a sudden temptation, it might 
be his fiist offense, and if warned, he might retreat from that down- 
ward path. Was it not Holroyd ’s duty— or at least, would it not be 
the act of a generous foe, to give him this chance of redemption? 
Rut how should he do this? If he spoke to him openly, he would 
be met by haughty and indignant denial; in which case he would 
have no choice but to leave Davenport; tor to remain here, after 
charging the son of the house with such a crime, would be impos- 
sible. 

A course suggested itself to him which he at first scorned; but the 
expediency of which became gradually more apparent. After a few 
minutes’ reflection he seized a peu, and wrote the following words 
on a slip of paper in a large, bold text-hand. 

“Re warned. You were watched last night. Was it the first 
time?” 

Holroyd argued thus. If Roger was innocent he would not even 
know to what this referred, and he would probably come direct to 


68 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


Holroyd to demand an explanation; lor there vvas no attempt to dis- 
guise his writing. At all events, he would demand the meaning of 
this anonymous communication. His silence, on the other hand, 
would be proof positive of Roger’s guilt in Holroyd’s eyes. Alarmed 
and startled at discovery, as lie could not fail to be, it was just pos- 
sible that he might yet amend his ways. 

It was a bright winter’s morning. The snow lay thick on the 
ground. Though the clock had struck eight, the house — at least 
that wing in which were the bachelors’ rooms— was still apparently 
buried in profound slumber. Holroyd had long been awake; in- 
deed, he had slept but little since his return from the ball; and had 
been dressed some time when he left his room, and entered the pas- 
sage occupied by Roger and Malcolm. As he reached the top of the 
stairs, he heard the furtive stir of housemaids below; the click of 
window-bars removed, and shutters opened; the sweep of brooms, 
and clang of scuttles and fire-irons. But these sacred precincts of 
bachelorhood were safe from intrusion for awhile. Here, above, the 
jeunesse doree was enjoying av ell-merited repose: and no valet would 
be so ill-advised as to disturb the sleepers for another couple of 
hours at least. The last rooms in the passage were those of the two 
brothers. Holroyd opened Roger’s door without hesitation, and 
entered. 

The pale silvery light which streamed into the luxurious chamber 
througli the half-drawn curtains fell upon the dressing-table and 
glittered on studs and scarf-pins, on gilt bottles, and silver-handled 
brushes, and upon a pile of sovereigns and bank-notes. A vefvet 
smoking-suit laj’' on one chair, a Turkish dressing-gown upon 
another. A withered gardenia, still emitting a faint perfume, was 
on the floor, beside a glove, and a pair of worked slippers. Further 
on, a writing-table was littered with bills, letters, betting-memo- 
randa. Holroyd’s eye noted each object, not omitting a yellow-cov- 
ered French novel, from beneath which peeped the muzzle of a sil- 
ver-chased pocket-pistol. 

“ Who knows but that may be the end of it?” he said to himself. 
Then he laid the sealed envelope on the dressing-table, where Roger 
could not fail to observe it, and walked toward the bed. 

There he lay sleeping as calmly as a little child, his golden head 
buried in the pillow, the pale handsome face turned upward to the 
light, the curved lips parted, as if about to smile. It was hard to 
think that this perfect ivory mask concealed so much that was evil; 
so little capable of growing into good. 

The man who stood motionless beside the bed with folded arms, 
said again to himself as he glanced back at the pistol, 

” 1 believe if any one would blow out your brains now, it would 
be the kindest deed to you, wretched boy. It would save you a load 
of future sin, and others a load of misery. If Euthanasia can be 
justified, the putting an end to the sufferings of one past physical 
recovery — wliy not to one whose moral condition is hopelessly dis- 
eased?” 

For an instant a cynical smile at his own plausibility hovered on 
his lips, and then he sighed. He was not a soft-hearted man, but 
for this boy’s mother’s sake, for the sake of an admirable woman 
whom Holroyd venerated, he was doing his best to save the young 


INTUODl^CED TO SOCIETY. 


69 


reprobate. It was fiot much, and he knew the human heart too 
well to have any faith in a reformation wrought by a momentary 
scare. It would, possibly, prevent him from ever repeating the 
same crime; it would certainly not prevent his committing others. 

An hour later he received a little pencil note from Lady Daven- 
port. 

“ Will you breakfast with us at ten, instead of in the school- 
room? Malcolm is still asleep, and 1 liope you will excuse him this 
morning.’' 

Philip Holroyd hated to acknowledge that he was glad of any pre- 
text now to be in Catherine’s company,. even it they should not ex- 
change a word. He entered the room at ten, and found only Lady 
Davenport. The party slowly dribbled in, but at nearly eleven 
o’clock Thane and the two brothers had not yet appeared. Cather- 
ine sat at the extreme end of the table, near, but not absolutely next, 
to Sir Norman, liolroyd was upon one side of her, the cl her seat 
was vacant, and she hoped Roger would occupy it. She kept look- 
ing toward the door, but he did not appear. After the interchange 
ot some <;ommonplace remarks ab6ut the ball, she said to her 
neighbor: 

“ ll was very good-natured of you to waltz with me, Mr. Holroyd, 
for you hated doing it, 1 know— though you danced better than any 
one. 1 was (piite surprised.” 

He looked amused. ” It does seem incongruous— but 1 -was once 
a good waltzer, and liked it. Now—” he broke off, as though he 
thought it wiser to pursue that subject no further. ” Coming alto- 
gether in a new society, as you are doing, may 1 ask what strikes you 
most?” 

“Well, to begin wu'th, that every one seems more at ease than at 
the parties I have gone to, and better dressed— certainly, better 
dressed— though 1 can’t say 1 admire Mrs. Courtland’s. We should 
not think that good taste at Melbourne. Let me see, what next? 
Oh! 1 observe they don't hitch up their dresses wdien they w^altz, as 
1 Avas taught to do. Lord Mountjoy told me not to do it, which 1 
thought was very kind of him.” 

“ There is certainly no lack of ease there,” observed Holroyd. 

She glanced up at him with a twinkling eye. 

“ 1 don’t like people to be so very stiff and reserved. 1 suppose, 
as he is a lord, his manners are all right. He is the first younce one 
1 have ever known, for Lord Windermere does not count.” 

“He would not like to hear that,” said Holroyd, with a smile. 
“There is as much difference, however, between the manners of 
lords, as ot linen-drapers. There ought to be no essential difference 
between the manners ot gentlemen.” 

“ 1 am glad there is,” returned Calherine, wilh spirit. “ 1 don’t 
care about the world being all alike, and perhaps some people’s 
model for manners 1 shouldn’t admire.” 

He did not at all mind the rebuff, which he felt wais meriled. Just 
then Mrs. Latour glided into the room in a dove- colored ctishmere 
dress embroidered in silver, and her head a mass of elaborate curls. 
She dropped into the chair next to Sir Norman at the head of the 
table which Catherine had expected Roger to fill. 

“ Sapristi! My dear Clare!” exclaimed the baronet, looking up 


70 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


from his plate at his silly cousin. “What an* attire! ,One would 
think you were .£?oing to a dejeuner in May!” 

“Oh! Norman, 1 Had not time to think what 1 would put on. 
I said to my maid, ‘ Dress me for fifteen,’ and she dressed me for 
thirty. It’s her fault.” 

Lord Mountjoy, a little way down the table, laughed out loud. 

“Well, 1 hope you enjoyed your ball?” said Sir Norman. “1 
never saw any one dance as you did. 1 don’t think yoii missed 
once.” 

“Oh! iNorman, when a woman is as much made up to as 1 am, it 
is so difficult to refuse. Wasn’t it delightful. Miss Johnstone? 1 
hope, Norman, the C ball will be as good-will it?” 

“ Well, a county ball, you know, is never the same thing — a mixt- 
ure. You can’t exclude" the 

“ What’s that?” asked Catherine. 

Mrs. Latour, who was always thirsting to impart her information, 
replied, " It means the demi-monde. Of course in one’s own house 
in London, one keeps the two sets separate, i always have one party 
for the grand-monde and anotheY for the demi-monde.’" 

Mountjoy shouted again with merriment. 

“Mind you ask me to the demi-monde party, INlrs. Latour. I’m 
a young man from the country, and know nothing of it. It must be 
much greater fun than the swells, ain’t it?” 

Mrs. Latour did not feel sure what she ought to reply, so she lim- 
ited herself to, “ Well — 1 admit — sometimes — but noblesse oblige, you 
know.” 

Her host made a vain effort to stop his fair cousin's mouth. 

“ What are you going to eat, Clare? Have some of i\iis,xmtede 
joie gras, it is excellent. ” 

“ How can 3 mu ask me, Norman? it’s so cruel.” 

“ Wfiiat do you mean, eh? Cruel to ask 5 mu to eat?” 

“ No, no— the pdie. Don’t you know how it is made?” 

“ Indeed 1 don’t — 1 suppose it is like a game or any other pate, eh?” 

“Oh. no, no!” said his cousin, shaking her elaborately curled 
head. “ The poor creature — is it a duck or a goose, by the by? 1 
forget. It isn’t game, 1 know.” 

“ A goose is oftenest made game of,” softly murmured Mrs. Hare, 
looking down upon her plate, as was her manner when she fired a 
shot for the benefit of the table. 

“ It isn’t game at all — hares and rabbilsare game,” returned Mrs. 
Latour, with toleration for ignorance. “Well! whatever it is, the 
wretched bird is put upon a red-hot plate and kept dancing there 
until it is cooked, and comes out as — as pdte de joie gras."’ 

“ Lord Bacon says, ‘ There is no fool like a she-fool,’ ” whispered 
Mrs. Hare. The object of this pointed remark did not hear what 
was said, but she was dimly conscious that the speaker treated her 
rather contemptuously. She revenged herself by saying to Cather- 
ine; “ You know Mrs. Hare has written a dreadfully improper book 
— of erratic verses, all aboul herself?” 

“ No, 1 don’t. You’ve read them, 1 suppose?” 

“ Oh! 1 wouldn’t on any account! A woman like me can’t be 
too particular wLat she says and does. The world is so ill-natured. 

“ 1 find it so good-naiured, on the contrary.” 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY, 


71 


“ Ah! blit YOU are dilTerent, you see. Perhaps you don’t find it 
necessary lo lock your door at night? 1 do. 1 find it so necessary 
to be careful, in all J say and do!” 

” So 1 perceive,” replied (Catherine, demurely. 

At this moment Malcolm entered the room, and went up to his 
mother. He kissed her, and then whispered somethinsr, which 
made lier look troubled. Her lips contracted, as tliey had a habit 
of doing, when she had any cause for anxiety. She asked him one 
or two questions; the replies apparently were unsatisfactory. After 
a few minutes’ hesitation she made a sign to Holroyd; who rose and 
went to her. 

“ I hear there are two men outside, who are asking to see Roger. 
Will you kindly go and see what it is they want — and let me know? 
Say nothing to Sir Km man.” 

Holroyd left the room. 


CHAPTER Xlll. 

Mrss Johnstone had a habit of going every morning after break- 
fast to look at her horses. 

When the party left the dining-room a quarter of an hour later she 
put on her hat in the hall, and let herself out into the stable-yard 
by a passage communicating with it. As she opened the door she 
observed Holro.yd, under the archway close by in conversation with 
two men. One of these was unmistakably a Jew; the other a 
dapper little Gentile. 

She had to pass near them, and could not avoid hearing what the 
Jew said, in a harsh, thick voice. 

” It ain’t no good, sir. He’s in the house here, that I know, and 
if he ain’t goinc to pay me down on the nail, I’ve got a judgment 
in the county court to seize — ’* 

She lost the rest, and as fiolroyd’s back was toward her she could 
not catch his reply; but her curiosity and interest w'ere awakened. 
What did it mean? Catherine had but a vague idea of what ” a 
judgment in the county court ” implied. Who was the object of 
it. Sir Korman, or his son? 

One of the horses was not well : she remained some time in the 
stable, and when she left il, the strangers were walking up and 
flovrn the yard. Holroyd was gone. The Jew looked at her, and 
then apparently asked some question of a groom who crossed the 
yard at the moment. INo properly brought-up young lady would 
have acted as Catherine did. She newer could explain afterward 
why she felt impelled to stop and address this man, for whatever 
his business here might he, it certainly could be no concern of hers. 
” Are you w'aiting lor any one?” she said. 

‘‘ Y^, miss, and we don’t mean to go away till we have seen 
him.” 

She hesitated. ” Is it Sir Norman Davenport?” 

” No, it’s his eldest son — Mr. Davenport. If, as 1 understand, 
you ,are the young lady as he’s goiu' to marry — ” 

” Yon have been misinformed ’’—interrupted the girl with a 
tlaming cheek. 


72 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY, 


“ Oh— then his game’s up, and his personalty ’ll he seized,” said 
the irjin with impudent familiarity. 

“ Wliat do you mean? ’ 

” Why, 1 ain’t a-goin’ to let him slip olT abroad, without getting 
some of the thirteen hundred jis he owes me— that’s all.” 

” Slip oft abrojid! Mr. Davenport is too much a man of honor 
to—” 

” Honor? Bless you! there’s .nothin’ dishonorable in tryin’ to do 
a man as has a legal claim on him — that’s where it is. I’ve his 
promissory note, and he didn’t defend the action as 1 brought, and 
I’m what they calls an ‘ execution creditor,’ you see, now. I’ve the 
right to seize all his goods — and 1 mean to do it. They ain’t w’orth 
more than half what he owes me, but—” 

” What is the amount of his debt to you?” 

‘‘ Somethin’ under thirteen hundred pounds.” 

” What is that for? What are you?” 

” I’m a gen’leman as advances money — to oblige, miss.” 

‘‘ ITow long has this been owing?” 

” The money was lent for six months, and the note is overdue 
now more than three weeks. The gent as backed the bill 1 find’s 
gone to America. Mr. Davenport sha’n'tdo the same, I’m resolved 
— till I’ve got something out of him.” 

” But you are surely not going to seize all his things here — now^ — 
in his father’s house? It’s impossible!” 

“ You’ll see whether it’s impossible, presently, miss. Unless 1 
get a check for my bill, with our traveling expenses, me and the 
officer here, I take all his jewelry, and his dressing-case, which rny 
partner, Mr. Israels, sold him for two hundred pounds eighteen 
mouths ago.” 

” Those things were paid tor?” 

” Yes — but there are plenty of other bills not paid tor. OnW, I’m 
first in the field, you see. That’s where it is.” 

('atherine turned upon her heel, and left the j'urd. She walked 
straight to her own sitting-room, and sat down. Could she act in 
this matter; and if so, how? She had a large balance ai her bank- 
er’s; it seemed obvious that she should, it possible, prevent this dis- 
grace trom falling upon the family with whom she had elected to 
live. Her interest in the man Himself, her intense desire to relieve 
him from his difficulties, she would not admit to herself, as main in- 
centives to action. Indeed, she went the length of believing that it 
would be easier to help him if she had no personal feeling in the 
question. But now, how was this to be done without wounding 
his susceptibility, and exposing herself to misconstruction? 

ouddenly, an idea struck her, and with her habitual rapid! l.y of 
decision, she rang the beli, and desired her footman to go to INIr. 
Holroyd, and beg that gentleimm to come and speak to her imme- 
diately. 

‘‘ If he is not in the study you must hunt for him everywhere till 
you find him, and say, it is important 1 should see him, for five 
minutes,, imniedialely.” 

As soon as the servant had lett the room she look out her check- 
book and filled in a check for thirteen hundied iiounds; then she 
sat and waited. 


INTilODUCEn TO SOCIETY. 


73 

It was full}' a quarter of an hour before she heard the firm, long 
stride which she at once recognized, coming down the passaged 
Before llolroyd had reached the door she stood there, and had 
opened it. 

“ Will you come in?” she began rapidly 1 want to speak to 
you about that horrid Jew who is down in the court-yard. I know 
what he is come here for. I want, it 1 can, to ore vent this disgrace 
from falling upon Lady Davenport, and— and all of them. But of 
course 1 don’t want to appear myself. 1 can’t do anything— it 
would be impossible— you understand?” 
lie looked at her, half compassionately, halt sternly. 

‘‘ No; 1 do not.” 

She replied quickly, ‘‘This Jew' means to seize all Mr. Daven- 
port’s things. Think of the scandal! It must be prevented- it 
must.” 

” llow do you propose to do this?” 

“I w'ill pay the money- but no one must knoAv it is I-^Ir. 
Davenport least of all. 1 wnint you to devise some means by w'hich 
this can be done. Do help me, Mr. llolroyd; you are the only 
person who can do so.” 

” Are you at all aware what is the amount of this debt?” ho 
asked, after a slight pause. 

For all reply, she took the check from the table, and placed it in 
his hand. lie examined it with knit brow; then, holding it out, 
and pointing with the other hand to the vacant space, he said, 

‘‘You have not filled in Mr. Barton’s name; but you must do so. 
And, in that case, how' am 1 to prevent the fact of your having paid 
this debt from being known*’ The Jew will assuredly speak of it. 
He knows you are a young lady of considerable fortune, and — ” 

‘‘ And he came here partly on that account. 1 am aware of that. 
You need not be afraid, the gossip does not hurt me; but 1 should 
be sorry if Mr. Davenport heard it— or his mother. That is why 1 
am doubly anxious my little plot should never be known. 1 did 
not know this Barton’s name, so 1 could not have written it; but at 
all events, 1 should not give my check to him.” 

” To w'hom, then, do you propose that it should be i^aid?” 

‘‘To you.” 

” To me?” he repeated, with cold astonishment. ‘‘ But this is 
not so easy a matter as you seem to imagine. In the first place, 1 
have no wish to mix myself up in Roger Davenport’s affairs. 1 
spoke to this Jew just now at Lady Davenport’s particular recpiest, 
and ascertained that he had legal power to seize Roger’s personalty, 
and that he meant to exercise this right. When Roger sees Barton 
he must settle his own affairs as best he can. 1 strongly advise 
your having nothing to do with them.” 

” Thank you,” she replied, with the only approach to a smile her 
face had yet worn; ” but you virtually declined to give me any ad- 
vice w'hen 1 asked for it yesterday, and now' 1 am going to act upon 
my owm judgment — or, perhaps, 1 ought to say, from deliberate 
choice.” 

‘‘ That would probably be nearer the mark.’* 

She flushed. ” I hope you do not misunderstand me? I do this 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


74 

mainly out ot my regard and sympathy for Lady Davenport— and 
my desire to spare her humiliation and pain,” 

‘‘ The respite will be but temporary. In Roger’s own interests, it 
is better that he should be made to suffer. It is the only chance left 
of his reform. ” 

“You speak severely. Did you never commit any follies when 
you were his age?” 

The words were no sooner out of her mouth, than she regretted 
them. His brow contracted, and he began hastily, 

“ 1 did many wrong things. Miss Johnstone, but 1 never — no mat- 
ter. You did not send for me to discuss Roger Davenport’s charac- 
ter; my opinion can be of no importance to you. Y'ou have made 
up your mind how you mean to act in this and every other circum- 
stance regarding him, no doubt.” 

“ In this 1 have: and 1 feel confident that you will prevent my 
being placed in a false position. You can do it so easily. Go to 
the jew; tell him that if he will accompany you quietly back to 
London by the next train, he shall have his money paid in full, in- 
stead of tile few hundreds he would be able to raise by selling Mr. 
Davenport’s jewelry. He will believe you— 1 could see he w^as halt 
in hopes that something of this sort would result from his visit. 
May 1 fill in 3 mur name?” 

What a strange compound ot cleverness and ignorance, of busi- 
ness-like method and recklessness, ot daring and modesty, this sin- 
gular girl was! Holroj’^d looked at her in surprise: he felt that it 
would be some time yet l>etore he could really understand her char- 
acter. He said nothing, but w'alked to the window, and looked 
out. Hot that he was hesitating to obey her command. Though 
his manner might be stifl: and ungracious, and though he might 
maintain that it was better for Roger that he should "bear this dis- 
grace, she had judged rightly, that he would not turn a deaf ear to 
her appeal. But he foresaw that there would be more difficulty in 
keeping her name out of the affair than she, sanguine and inexperi- 
enced, could anticipate. 

“ Jjet me be frank with you. Y^ou W'ill be placed in ‘ a false posi- 
tion.’ It will be impossible to prevent the truth being suspected: 
and it is an unheard-of thing for a girl to pay a young man’s debts 
— a man, too, who is a comparative stranger — to the tune of £1800. 
Still, if you insist on doing this, and running the risk of — of what 
may be said, 1 will not refu&e to carry out your wishes, though it 
is, for many reasons, most distasteful to me. But 1 wish 1 could 
dissuade you from taking a step w^hich, 1 feel sure, is not a wise 
one. To begin with, what fiction can 1 devise to Roger to account 
for his relief from Barton’s importunity?” 

“ Make him give you a bond, payable to yourself. Of course it 
won’t be worth the paper it is w'ritten on, and you can tear it up; 
but you can say that a friend of yours will advance you the money 
upon it: and I dare say Mr. Davenport knows too little of business 
to see the improbability of such a thing.” 

“ He is not quite so simple, 1 am sorry to saJ^ as you imagine. 
My objection to this course is that it places him under a heavy im- 
aginary obligation to me. 1 assume the part ot a benefactor, and 
must receive his thanlvs— and, what is far worse, the thanks of his 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


mother. You are asking? me to do what is altogether contrary to 
my nature. Miss Johnstone.” 

” Never mind,” returned the girl calmly. “ Motives are every- 
thing. You will have earned hearty thanks trom all. Your claim 
to gratitude in doing what you dislike is greater than mine, who am 
doing what pleases me. 1 dare say it is unwise, trom every point 
of view: it is just a selfish gratification. 1 have the money lying 
idle, and 1 prefer to spend it in this way to any other.” 

” It would belietter to fling it into the sea,” he muttered. 

She look up a pen and wrote Philip Holroyd’s name on the check, 
without making any rejoinder. 

He looked at his watch; the London train was due in half an 
hour. If this thing had to be done — 

” There is no time to lose. 1 must go and find the Jew,” he said. 

She handed him the check, and then, for the first time in her life, 
their hands met. 

‘‘ Will you not shake hands with me?” she asked, smiling, and 
keeping hers extended. He had withdrawn his; but now an iron 
grasp closed round her fingers. 

” Let us be friends henceforward, Mr. Holroyd.” 

lie gave her a strange, almost a sad look as it seemed to her; and 
then he left the room without a word. 

‘‘ That is a very odd man,” said Catherine to herself. ‘‘ He 
repels me, and yet if 1 did not resist it with all the force of my will, 
he would possess a strong influence over me. 1 was determined not 
to listen to him, but to make him do what 1 wanted, and 1 have so 
far succeeded. Now I am happy. I could not have gone on living 
here, with the misery hanging over these people. As to Roger 
Davenport- -well, 1 will wait. Though 1 have warnings on every 
side, I can’t believe him to be more .than foolish. How hard the 
world is, ]\Ir. Holroyd, every one— in its judgments!” 


CHAPTER XIV. , 

Roger, half-dressed, sat. near his toilet table with a p'aper in his 
hand. The envelope which contained it had fallen on the floor. 
His brow was knit; it would liave been diflicult to read the comple.x 
expression on his face. He had been sitting so for more than ten 
minutes, when he heard a knock at his door. Crumpling up the 
paper in his hand, he said, “ Come in,” and Lady Davenport en- 
tered. 

She looked very grave as she kissed him. 

” Do you know what has happened while you have been asleep?” 
He shook his head, and she continued. ” That man Barton has been 
here. Did you know that he had obtained legal right to seize your 
personal property?” 

“ I knew it was imminent— but 1 suppose the brute can be paci- 
fied, it I get the bill renewed.” 

‘‘ He will not be pacified unless he receives, in the course of the 
next twenty-four hours, the full amount you owe him — ” 

‘‘The beast! he charges fifty per cent. I’ll kick him down to 
the lodge gates, if I catch him here. Have you seen him?” 


IKTIIODLT'ED TO SOCIETY. 


70 

“No, and 1 am glad to say you will not be able to behave fool- 
ishly about him, for he is gone. Mr. Ilolroyd saw him; what passed 
between them 1 can not say, but they are gone to London together, 
Mr. Ilolroyd saying that he could get the money advanced by a 
friend.’’ 

“ Ml*. Holroyd gone up to town, to raise this money forme? Im- 
possible!’’ ana he unconsciously grasped yet tighter the paper in his 
hand. 

“ Why impossible? He is a stern man, and he woula not put up 
with your pranks, but he is a true friend, Roger.’’ 

“ lie hates me— he always did hate me. 1 suppose he thinks to 
get a hold over me by this interference.’’ 

“ Row can you be' so silly, and so ungrateful! 1 heartily wish he 
could obtain a hold over you, my poor bo3^ But how he is to pro- 
cure the money 1 have not an idea: it seems impossible that any one 
would advance such a sum without adequate securit}’^ — and you 
have none to give.’’ 

“ It doesn’t much signify,’’ said the young man, with a return to 
his usual indifference of tone, from which he had been momentarily 
roused. “It is only a drop in the ocean after all. IMy debts of 
honor amount to three times as much as this dirty Jew’s bill.’’ 

“Oh! Roger! Roger! and you make no effort to redeem yourself 
from this disgraceful position! You liave no shame!’’ 

She spoke with vehemence, and her pale cheek flushed. Her son 
rose from his chair and sighed, before he answered in a low voice, 
as he bent his blue eyes down upon her, 

“ 1 have made an effort, but you have opposed it. 1 believe 1 
could manage to keep straight it 1 were once set on my legs, and 
married to a good sort of girl — with money.’’ 

“ And you have so little pride that you could ask this girl to take 
the burden of your debts upon her?’’ 

“ I should not ask her to take it, but 1* should not deceive her. 
Y"ou would not wish me to deceive her? If 1 tell her everything, and 
she likes me well enough to pay four or five thousand pounds tor 
me before we marry, what harm is there? Isn’t it better than run- 
ning over head and ears in debt after marriage, and ruining the es- 
tate as my father has done?’’ 

“ We will not discuss your father. That has nothing to do with 
you.” 

“ Unfortunately it has — everything. He has mortgaged the prop- 
erty so heavily that 1 shall never get a farthing out of it. If 1 don’t 
marry there is nothing left for me, that 1 can see, but to go abroad. 1 
suppose it will end in my becoming a billiard-marker or croupier at 
a hell.” 

He meant to distress her, though he really Ciired lor his mother as 
much as it was in his nature to care for anything except himself. 
But it she was to be moved to help his schemes, in this or any other 
Way, her feelings must be probed to the quick. The ashy color of 
her face, how'ever, and the spasm of pain that contracted it, caused 
him some remorse. lie stortped, and kissed her on the brow. 

“Never mind, mother; yon have a model son in Malcolm, who 
will inherit all Lady Retford’s money, and redeem the family estates 
W'hen 1 am gone to the dogs.’’ • 


INTRODITT:!) to sooirtv. 


** what do I rare about llie faiuily estates compared with your 
good name? Oh! my poor boy, there is no saoritice I wouhl not 
make to redeem you Irom your present course ot life. To watch 
you going headlong to destruction is a daily agony to me— no one 
knows what I suffer — but 1 will not, 1 dare not, connive at this 
marriage. It would be a crime, knowing 5 ’-ou as 1 do. You have 
no control over your passions, over even your inclinations. Miss 
Johnstone would be intolerant of your weakness — she would be a 
miserable wmman. You would not be unkind, 1 think, but you 
would neglect her— squander her money— and itw'ould probably end 
in separation. How much better would- it be tor 3 'ou to accept the 
appointment that was offered you in India, and lay by a sum out 
of your salary every year to discharge ^our debts by degrees!” 

He smiled sarcastically. 

“ You speak like a book, mother; but I know m^^selt too well, 
rni not made for office work, to begin wulh, and I couldn’t lay by 
mone}^ it my life depended on it. Jiesides, debts of honor must be 
paid at once, or what you dread most— dishonor— must follow. 
Does no means occur to 5 '^ou ” — he added with a little hesitation — 
” ot raising the wind for me?” 

She shook her head. 

‘‘ Everything of my own of value 1 sold to pay your debts last 
year.” 

He was silent for a moment: he looked away from her; then he 
said rapidly, 

” What is the use of keeping those family jewels?” 

” Of course, if they had not been entailed, they would have been 
sold long ago.” 

” But if 1 or Malcolm were to succeed to-morrow we should sell 
them. Why shouldn’t they be sold as well now, as a few years 
hence?” 

“You can never sell them, until you have a sou wdio can cut off 
the entail.” 

He turned toward the window, as he said carelessly, “ Who can 
tell whether they are in the bank or not?” 

“ What do 3 ’^ou mean?” she asked with cold severity. 

“Why, simply, that it is locking up so many hundreds a year. 
You have not worn them for ages till the other night, and perhaps 
will not wear them for ages again.” 

“ They have been locked up in the bank for years, it is true; but 
your father brought them down hero the other day, and it is his 
wish that 1 should wear them now that 1 am obliged to go into so- 
ciety again. But that has nothing to sny to il — under no circum- 
stances would it be possible to part with them, tor the jewels belong 
neither to your father nor to jmu nor to Malcolm. Tlicre are your 
cousins in the entail, and it would be nothing less than fraud to sell 
property which might one day be theirs— with the object of paying 
your debts.” 

He took a turn up and down the room in silence. 

“ I see you can not help me. Well, 1 suppose 1 must make my- 
self scarce, unless 1 can do something in the next few weeks. When 
is the C ball?” 

“ Tuesday in next week. Shall you stay for it?” 


IXTRODUrEt) TO SOCIETY. 


She did not sa)^ wiil you: nor did the tone in wliich she made the 
inquiry indicate any strong wish that he should remain. Indeed, 
lond as the poor mother was ot her scapegrace son, she lelt that if 
he was to go abroad, perhaps it was better that he should go at once: 
and thus flee from the dangerous fascination of Mrs. Courtland, and 
the temptation to impose upon Catherine’s credulity. 

“ 1 shall be at the ball— though perhaps 1 may go up to London 
tor a day or two before that.” 

Soon after this Lady Davenport left her son’s room. De did not 
come down-stairs till luncheon time. The interval w^as passed by 
him in reflection; in the formation and rejection ot sundry plans of 
action, and in a final resolve the effects of which will in due time 
be seen. 

Philip Ilolroyd returned ike, and did not appear in the drawing- 
room. Some dinner was taken to him in the library, and there, half 
an hour after, Roger joined him. He knew he could not avoid this 
interview, and he sought it with the courage which, to do him jus- 
tice, never deserted him. There were men, like Ilolroyd, who called 
this unflinching nerve ” audacity,” or by the yet harsher name of 
” bare-faced impudence:” but certain virtues resemble colors, the 
value ot which is affected by others they are associated with. Roger’s 
one virtue was discredited by its companion qualities. The pros- 
pect of a tete-d-tete with a man whom he hated, and whom he had 
reason to believe had him in his power. Was anything but pleasant; 
yet he walked into the room with a firm step, and met Holroyd’s 
upward glance and short smileless nod, with an undaunted gaze. 
He stood on the heart h-rug, having his back to the fire, while Philip 
quietly finished peeling his pear at the table, wthout looking again 
at him. 

” 1 hear you have been about my affairs to London. It is awfully 
good ot you, I’m sure. Ot course you were not able to do an}'- 
thing?” 

‘'Yes. 1 have done something.” He pulled Barton’s receipt 
from his breast coat-pocket, and threw it across the table. “ But 
you have nothing to thank me for. The money is not mine, and 
what 1 did, I did for your mother’s sake—” 

‘‘lam well aware it was not for mine,” interrupted Roger in the 
softest voice. 

“No,” continued the other sternly. ‘‘1 should certainly not 
have given you the money, if I had had it. 1 believe it would be 
far better for you to be made to suffer now, and be driven to accept 
some post abroad; you might then possibly turnover a new leaf. 
As it is, it you continue this life, 5^011 will be led from folly into 
crime ’’—here he looked up and their eyes for an instant met — and 
your mother’s gray hairs will be brought in sorrow to the grave, 
Roger Davenport. ’ ’ 

He winced, and Ilolroyd saw the color rise in the young man’s 
face, but he answered with composure. 

‘‘You always took the worst view^ of me, Mr. Holroyd, you al- 
ways disliked me so much that 1 can’t undei-stand why you have 
taken all this trouble about my affaii*s? Y’ou say you would not 
have given the money yourself, and yet you have procured it. 
From whom? and on what security?” 


INTBODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


79 

“ From a friend, on the security ot your word to repay the money 
to me when you are able to do so. Read this paper and then sign 
it,” and he pushed something in the form of a note across the table. 

Roger ran his .eye over it, and then a peculiar smile crossed his 
face. 

” Your friend is certainly not a man of business. Of what value 
can such a promissory note as this be? Of course I will sign it, but 
I should like to know first who it is who is generous enough to ad- 
vance this money for me?” 

‘‘ It surprises me to find you are so particular as to the source from 
which any money reaches y'ou,” returned Philip sarcastically. ” You 
must be satisfied, however, in this case, to know that 1 paid the 
money into Mr. Barton’s hand, and tfat to me thirteen hundred 
pounds are to be refunded, if you ever are in a position to do so. 
The value ot the note 1 ask you to sign is simply as evidence of a 
loan, the repayment of which I have certainly no legal power to 
enforce.” 

Roger took up a pen and wrote his name rapidly on the document 
before him. The suspicion, which had flashed through his brain a 
few minutes before, was conurmed. How she, who never appeared 
to hold much communication with the tutor, had come to intrust 
him with so delicate a commission, puzzled the young man; but 
that the money came from Catherine he felt almost certain, and this 
belief raised his hopes. 

” 1 may be able to repay your generous friend before very long,” 
he said, ” and if not, I promise you that the country will be rid ot 
my presence.” 

Philip looked up. ” What do you think of doing?” he asked 
abruptly. 

Roger raised his eyebrows, and then turned his face toward the fire. 

‘‘ Go where 1 am unknown, and live — somehow.” 

” It instead of ‘ live ’ .you said ‘ work,’ I should be satisfied.” 

” 1 dare say you will be satisfied,” returned the young man with 
all his accustomed indifference ot manner. ” Your worst prognosti- 
cations ot me will be fulfilled. 1 have prepared my mother to find 
that 1 am become a ‘ croupier ’ or billiard-marker.” 

‘‘Then you have done a cowardly and cruel thing.” Philip 
stood up as he spoke. ” V'ou have added an extra drop of gall lo 
your mother’s cup of bitterness. 1 had long known that you had 
no principle— 1 had lately suspected that you had lost all sense of 
honor; but I believed you had still some feeling for her — that you 
would not willingly add to her grief on your account. My last hope 
for you is gone. 1 see that no appeal to you on that score would be 
of any avail, for you are utterly heartless. God preserve any woman 
from falling into your hands! 1 should pity even the most worth- 
less, if she unfortunately loved you. ” 

Never before in all these years had Roger seen that man of iron 
mastered by passion. His voice shook, his face went deadly white 
the long-pent indignation had found a momentary vent. Pie could 
trust himself no longer, and left the room before Roger had framed 
a reply. 

But that astute young gentleman remained cogitating tor a con- 
siderable time upon a fact which puzzled him. Plis former tutor had 


80 


I2s^TJlOI)UCED TO SOCIETY. 


rarely, if ever, marifested the smallest interest in his concerns; had 
never expressed either anger or solicitude as to his evil-doings. 
Within the last twenty-four hours Roger had received no less than 
two evidences of a watchfulness and exasperation on the part of 
llolroyd, the key to which he could not at once find*. His last words, 
coupled with the fact of Catherine's intrusting a secret commission 
to him, gave Roger the first hint as to the strong personal interest 
Philip took in the woman whom Roger now felt tolerably confident 
should he his wife. Unless she meant to marry him, it was incon- 
ceivable that she should present him with thirteen hundred pounds; 
and that this money came from her was certain. Hfs mother couid 
not, and Lady Retford — he knew by experience — would not, have 
advanced it. It was like what he knew of the girl’s character, that 
she should secretly do this: but only on the supposition that she 
was in love. llolroyd could not have tailed to discover this; and the 
discover\^ had intensified his animosity to Roger. It was not her 
money that he sought; Roger, strange to say, did the tutor full 
justice; he had unaccountably fallen in love with the girl: that was 
the only explanation of it. And now, what would Philip llolroyd 's 
course be? As Roger asked himself this, he could not deny that he 
was to a certain extent in the power of a man whose mind was in 
11 uenced against him by jealousy. Yet that man had been up to 
London, at Catherine’s bidding, to free him from the burden of his 
legal debts. But, unless matters came to a crisis at once — unless his 
engagement to Catherine could be announced speedily, would 11 ol 
royd hold his peace? Of course in that matter of his sirspicion, 
Roger felt confident that the tutor would not dare to speak. But 
how about an accumulation of fact, which might be adduced to his 
serious detriment, at the present moment? 

Roger came to the conclusion that no time was to be lost. If this 
thing was to be done, it must be done quickly. 


CHAPTER XV. 

It had been snov/ing all night, and now in the morning there 
was a hard frost and a brilliant sun shining upon the frozen snow, 
and upon the scarlet breasts of the robins who sat, Waitinir for 
cr umbs, upon the sill of Catherine’s windov-. 

She was always an early riser. She dressed herself this morning 
with more alacrity than usual, ran down-stairs, and let herself into 
the garden by the glass door, which was next to the school-room. 
As she passed the window, she saw Holroyd standing there, and 
acting with her accustomed impulse, she beckoned to him to join 
her. 

He was not surprised, as many men would have been; nor did any 
fatuous delusion exhilarate him. He understood why she desired 
to speak to him. A minute or two later he had overtaken her in 
the little pathway that had already been swept clear of snow through 
the shrubbery. She Held out her hand. 

“ Tell me what you did yesteiday. Is it all right?” 

” 1 paid Barton, and 1 have got Roeer Davenport’s acknowledg- 
ment of the debt. So far, all is right. ' But he suspects, as 1 knew 
he would, from whom the money comes.” 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


81 


!Shc tlushcd. “ Did he attempt to refuse the — the loan?” 

” No. He is not a man likely to refuse ‘ a loan!’ ” said Holroyd 
with a bitter smile. 

” Do you mean that he has no pride? No sense of humiliation? 
1 can't believe it!” she exclaimed quickly. 

He remained silent. Their footsteps crunched aloni^ over the 
frozen gravel, and there was no other sound but the rustle of falling 
snow, when the flight of a bird shook down a shower from the 
overladen branches. 

” After all,” she continued resolutely, ” he is a gentleman; what- 
ever his faults and follies are, you can not deny that he is a gentle- 
man.” 

Still he made no reply. His brow was knit: his eyes turned to 
her as she spoke, and then bent downward. Even Catherine could 
not but sec that his silence was caused by some internal struggle; 
some diflicuHy as to what he should say. But with all a woinm’s 
persistence, she determined he should speak. 

“ You said yesterday that your opinion of Mr. Koger Davenport 
could be of no importance to me. Supposing 1 were to tell you 
that it IS? Supposing 1 were to ask jou, as a friend, to tell me, 
candidly, wh}’- you, who were his tutor, and should know him well, 
are so prejudiced against him— as of course 1 can’t fail to see that 
you are?” 

” It is because 1 am still his brother’s tutor — still eating Sir Nor- 
man’s bread, that I can not speak to you ‘ candidl}'’,’ Miss-Iohnstone. 

1 can only tell you that this is what 1 would say to Roger if he were 
here, ‘ Y’ou come of an ancient stock; your mother fs a true lady: 
you were bred at Et.ou, you have always associated with your 
equals; you are regarded as a model by a certain class of men, and 
arc idolized by a certain class of women. If this constitutes being 
a gentleman, you are one.’ 1 will not say more than this, unless — 
unless you tell me that your future happiness depends on my reply. 
If you say that it does, 1 will give up my appointment in this house, 
and speak my mind of Roger Davenport.” 

“Of course 1 should not let you do that,” returned Catherine 
quickly. ‘“Besides, although 1 can not help liking and admiring 
Mr. Davenport (1 admit that) — 1 have known him so short a time, 
it is absurd to suppose 1 can have any— any — any real feeling about 
him, except interest, and pity, and— and a desire to befriend him. \ 
It is this makes me wish for the unbiased opinion of one who has 
known him as long as you have done.” 

He made a movement, as though to interrupt her; but stopped 
himself and she continued, 

“ His mother has warned me against him, and so has another 
woman. 1 understand both; Lady Davenport’s sensitive nobility,, 
and my friend’s prudential dread — yes, 1 understand both; but they 
are women. What 1 want is a man’s opinion— a man’s whom I can- 
trust.” 

“ Y’ou know nothing of me. Why should you trust. Twe.?” he 
asked, giving her a quick side-glance. 

“Well, 1 scarcely know,” she replied, with an attempt at a 
laugh. “Certainly not from any encouragement you have given 
me.” 


82 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


“No — 1 have avoided you — 1 would have avoided this; but it has 
been forced on us both. Don’t ask me to speak — for 1 can not, as 
long as 1 am here. Only this 1 will say, and 1 would repeat it be- 
fore his mother. Do what you like for Roger— give him everything 
you possess— but don’t marry him.” 

“He has not yet asked me. But, it is all very well to talk of 
‘giving him everything 1 possess.’ Who would marry me, do you 
think, if 1 were beggared? You know that my money is my chief 
attraction— not only to Mr, Roger Davenport.” 

“Yes, to most men it is so, no doubt.” 

“Be frank. Do you believe there is a single exception?” 

“ 1 think it possible there is— and that you will never know it. 
If such a man grows to love you— perhaps in spite of himself— he 
will shrink more and more from avowing it, lest you should class 
him with the herd of mercenaries. However,” he added with a 
sharp change of tone, “ this is beside the question. It rests with 
you to decide whether your benevoleuce to Roger is to end here. 
Unless he meets with encouragement from you, he will go abroad at 
once.” 

“ It seems as if 1 were driving him away from home. Perhaps 1 
had better not remain here?” 

“ That would not affect his movements, and only increase Sir 
Norman’s difficulties.” 

“ What will Mr. Roger Davenport do abroad? Will he try and 
get his livelihood in any waj'^?” she inquired after a pause. 

“ Ask him,” he replied, with ill-repressed scorn. “ He has told his 
mother: he will probably try and work upon your feelings in a like 
manner.” 

“ But ” — she hesitated — “ may it not make a difference now— now 
that his debts are paid?” 

Those were only his legal debts. He has debts of honor, which — 
unless he can meet them — will prevent his showing his face in so- 
ciety again.” 

” Then his only hope is in being able to marry some one with 
money? Well, if 1 could feel sure of redeeming him, it would be 
as good an object to devote mine to as any other, perhaps.”* 

“ You don’t believe that,” he returned, with a quick anger which 
Hushed his face for a moment or two. Y^ou have too good brains 
to believe that by paying his gambling debts, you can reform a man 
who must marry for money— (it is you who say it, not 1). And you 
have eyes too; unless they are blinded. I can only tell you to use 
them; and then ask yourself whether, Roger Davenport being what 
he is, there is no better object to which you can devote your fort- 
une.” 

She was silent. Of course she understood what he leferrcd to; 
and he knew that she understood. It was a branch of the subject 
she w'ould not touch upon with Ilolroyd. The man’s strength im- 
pressed her strangely — a little disagreeably perhaps. But his words 
left a deep impression. 

******* 

Later in the day, Philip Holioyd was closeted tor nearly an hour 
with Lady Davenport. Though they discussed Roger’s position 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


83 


freely, Catherine’s name was not mentioned. Holroyd cautiously 
avoided letting escape any word that should betray her secret. He 
advised that no opposition .should be offered to her son’s* going 
abroad, if, indeed he was resolved on that course. India, perhaps, 
would be the best place for him: with Interest, it might be possible 
to procure him some small post theie. A all events, it was manifest 
that the life he had hitherU> led must now come to an end. 

It was still a bright day after the heavy snow, which fell in show- 
ers of powder now and again from the boughs of the silver larches. 
Every one was out; some skating on the pond, some walking dis- 
creetly on its banks; Cathenuc in a sledge, .which had just been 
.sent her from London, with Mrs. Hare bcside*her, both swathed in 
furs. Catherine looked to particular advantage behind the hand- 
some bay pony with its jingling bells. Her perfect command over ^ 
the high-mettled little cob, whom the frosty air and his unwonted 
gear excited somewhat perilously, roused general admiration from 
the men. 

“ By Jove!” cried Mountjoy, as he skated up to Roger, who was 
performing some gyrations not tar from the bank w’here Miss John- 
stone had drawn up. ” That girl is A 1 with the ribbons. It w'oiild 
take you all you know*, my boy, to drive that animal!” 

“You mean the cob, not the girl, 1 suppose?” Roger said this 
with his usual soft smile and low voice; then he. skimmed off like a 
bird, wheeling round and round, poising himself now on one leg, 
now on the other, with an easy grace which not even all good skat- 
ers possess. Finally he drew up beside the sledge, whose owner he 
knew had been watching him. 

“ Won’t you put on your skates and take a turn? Driving— even 
your fiery little brute— must be cold work to-day.” 

” But I can drive, and 1 can’t skate — at least very badl}'.” 

” Let me give you a lesson. Put y^ourself under my care — you 
sha’n’t fall.” 

” Miss Johnstone, you are not going to leave mo?” cried Mrs. 
Hare. ” 1 won’t stay a minute in the sledge, if you get out. Mr. 
Davenport is a perfect Mephistophiles, leading you to your destruc- 
tion-only it is on the ice, instead of into the fire.” 

But some one came up to Mrs. Hare’s side of the sledge at that 
moment and spoke to her. She turned her head to answer him, 
and Roger, who had leaped up on the bank, and was leaning on the 
sledge close to Catherine’s shoulder, said in a low voice, 

” 1 am going to London to-morrow, or Monday.” 

” Are you? 1 am sorry. Why do you go?” 

”1 have to make arrangements for going abroad.” 

“ Going abroad?” 

‘‘ Yes. Come on the ice, and I’ll lell you all about it.” 

“ How can 1 forsake Mrs. Hare?” 

” Your groom is here— he can drive her home: or she can walk.” 

He felt confident that Catherine would yield: she did so. He 
sounded her weakness: he had no conception of her strength. She 
was in his eyes an intelligent borirgeoise, consumed by a craving to 
become a fashionable woman, who might attain her end by marry- 
ing him, and was in the meantime far from insensible to his per- 
sonal attractions. She was presentable in appearance; she was 


IKTRODUCET) "TO SOCIETY. 


84 

bright and pleasant in conversation: common sense told him he 
might wait a long lime before he found so advantageous a bargain; 
and lime was just the only thing it was impossible for him to waste, 
in his present strait. Every hour was precious: he must risk some- 
thing: he must precipitate affairs, though he felt that an avowal was 
premature, and could only be justified by exceptional circumstancs. 

“ Now, lean on me, and throw out your feet boldly, right and left. 
Don’t be afraid.” 

‘‘ 1 am awkward. I am not afraid. ” 

“ No— you are above such petty feminine weakness. No woman 
could drive that anirpal of yours who had not plenty of nerve. 1 
sometimes ask myself whether yoirr pluck would enable you to 
brave the world’s opinion — whether it is possible you would link 
^ your lot with one against whom all your friends— even his own 
mother — had cautioned you. This seems to you very sudden, does 
it not? Do not be angry — do not rejDly hastily. If you knew how 
1 was situated, you would understand that 1 ani driven to spetik to 
you now, tor if you give me no hope, 1 shall leave England almost 
immediately — for years, perhaps forever.” 

” Forever ! How can you talk so, Mr. Davenport? You do not 
mean to insinuate that love for me will drive you abroad?” 

“ No, 1 do not.” They had gradually slackened their pace, until 
now they were standing under the shelter of an old holly, at 
the further end of the pond. “ 1 admire your character, your in- 
tellect, which are so superior to my own, and 1 feel your ennobling 
influence every day more and more. 1 believe that 1 should be per- 
fectly happy, if you consented to marry me, and that 1 should be- 
come a better man than 1 have a chance of becoming in any other 
wa3\ 15ut 1 have fancied myself too often in love to degrade you by 
any passionate protestations. Others will make tikein to you: 1 
affect nothing 1 do not feel: 1 tell you the simple truth. You arc 
made to be my redemption, if you will. If not — 1 shall go to the 
devil.” 

This speech was ably devised; Roger did not “ protest loo much,” 
he said what was well calculated to move the girl who admired and 
pitied him, though she was too keen -sighted to have believed any 
ardent avowal of devotion, had he been stupid enough to make one. 
She parried his direct appeal by a return to the original question. 

” You are going abroad, 1 understand, because you have debts of 
honor you can not meet ? Instead of flying, would it not be braver to 
go to the men to whom you owe this money, and say, ‘ 1 can not pay 
you now, but give me time and you shall be paid to the utmost farth- 
ing. 1 will work, I will save, and will not touch a card nor make 
a bet, till 1 am tree from this burden,’ lYould not such a course 
be braver — more Imnorable, than ignominious flights” 

” The men 1 live with are not used to such a course. If a man 
breaks, he must fly. 1 could never show ni}’’ face among them it 1 
continued to live in England. New Zealand — anywhere would be 
better. Besides, there are other reasons against my remaining here 
—other dangers 1 can’t talk to you about. It is better I should go 
quite away, unless 1 have a hope of winning you.” 

” IMr. Davenport, you have been frank, and 1 thank you. 1 will 
be equally so. Of course 1 know that, my money must be my first; 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


85 

and chief attraction in vour eyes. 1 am not a fool, and 1 am aware 
that 1 must make up my mind to that, whomever 1 marry. 1 like 
you, but 1 really know very little of you — too little to intrust my 
future to a man against whom, as you know, 1 have been warned, 
and who acknowledges himself so weak that he is forced to fly from 
dangers which he can not even name to me. If, instead ot this, you 
faced and overcame them —if you would prove to your detractors 
that 3'ou are made of better stutl than the}'^ believe, and would work 
steadily for two years at anything — no matter what — 1 believe 1 
should marry you, supposing that you asked me. But 1 can hold out 
no other ‘ hope ’ than this ; and understand it is not a promise — I 
Know you too little to bind myself. It is only a possibility depend- 
ing mainly upon yourself.” 

lie held her hand, and his handsome ey^es w-^ere lowered, she could 
only see their dark lashes; but the mouth under its silky mustache 
she could read, and it became more and more rigid. The soft, per- 
suasive lips hardened into an expiession she did not recognize. It 
was momentary, however; when she ceased to speak, the suave lines 
of the face were recomposed. 

It all seems easy to you, Miss Johnstone; but do you think my 
education has fitted me to work? Do you think the example ot my 
father, of my associate:^, of the world in which 1 live, is likely to 
make me strong to resist temptation? They never deny themselves 
anything they want. Can y^ou wmnder that, seeing this going on 
around me ever since 1 was an Eton boy, L should be what I am? 
As lo work, what could 1 do now? 1 might have gone into the 
army, but it is too late to think ot that. Canyon imagine mesitting 
at a desk in a government otflee? If 1 knew foieign languages 1 
might be a queen’s messenger; that is one reason why I had better 
go abroad. If there was any one to encourage me to study — any . 
one who cared enough for me to sacrifice her life to a munen, 1 
might do something. As it is — ” 

He left his sentence incomplete, and sighed. Catherine’s sensi- 
bility was touched. It was certainly true that he had known noth- 
ing but bad example, that he had been exposed to great temptation, 
that he was still very young. Might it not be true, also, that a 
woman’s influence could reclaim him? But though she asked her- 
self this, she was too clever not to see almost instantaneously the 
obvious rejoinder which shaped itself into these words: — 

” The woman who is to perforin this part with any chance of suc- 
cess must be one you love — not one you select from — other consider- 
ations. If you can’t resist present temptation, with a view of win- 
ning the latter, what chance has she of effecting this wonderful 
reformation by and by? I am heartily sorry'- for you — a great deal 
you say is quite true, I know; bbt I don’t believe in a reformation 
dependent upon a good income. If 1 ‘ sacrifled ’ my life tu you now, 

I should do it with my ey'^es open, knowing that y^ou would amuse 
ymurself after marriage very much as you have done hitherto, and 
that I should have to pay your debts whatever they were. As to 
that, however, I care nothing about money; but I should be a fool, 
any girl must he, who marries a man over whom she feels she has 
no influence — and can I delude myself into fancying 1 have any 
over you?” 


IKTKODUCED TO SOCIETY, 


86 

“ Have you not seen me tryinfi; to free myself from otlier in- 
fluence?” he asked, iu a low voice, “ It is very difficult to shake 
off an intimacy of habit, but 1 have been trying to do this, out of 
my growing regard tor you, my gradual conviction tliat you were 
the one woman in the world who might reclaim me, it she chose.” 

She paused a moment or two, before she replied. 

” 1 will make a confession to you, which, perhaps, 1 ought not to 
make. 1 don’t know — 1 have tiied to have this conviction. I have 
tried to believe that I might perhaps become the good genius iu 
your life — but what ground have 1 for such an idea? We have 
known each other scarcely a month, and during most of that time 
you have not attempted to conceal your admiration tor another 
person. How am 1 to feel sure that you are sincere in what you 
now say? Time alone can prove it. Break away from your old 
associates, your old habits, . Show me that 1 have really some active 
influence ov'^er your life. Then, and not till then, i may listen to 
you.” 

Roger bit his lip. To be baffled in his plans by this odd, out- 
spok(n girl, who openly owned her preference for him, was doubly 
irritating. But though her obstinacy upset all his calculations, he 
was too clever to persist where he saw it would be useless. 

” You are wise,” he said at last. ” The world will applaud your 
decision. You alone, perhaps, one day, may think with regret that 
3 ’’Ou might have saved me, but prudently abstained. 1 shall break 
away from old associations. Miss Johnstone— yes — but, perhaps, 
the change may not be for the better.” 

” It is getting cold here,” she said with a little shiver. 

Then he seized her hand again, and they skated rapidly away. 


CHAPTER XVI. - 

The following day, Saturday, Roger 'did not. go to London, but 
he wrote to Mr Israels, who was Mr. Barton’s partner, and with 
whom he preferred transacting business, making an appointment on 
Monday, after which he drove over to Brookwood, where Mrs, 
Courtland was reported to have had an accident, and to be confined 
to her sofa. Some o/ the guests departed that day; others remained 
on till over the C ball, on the following Tuesday, 

By Sunday morning the snow was gone; it was a mild, windless 
day -Lady Davenport always went to church twice. But she never 
expected her guests to go, or asked any questions. If they were 
minded to attend divine service, the church, being a stone’s-throw 
from the house, was within the reach of all; there could be no ques- 
tion of a carriage. The only individuals upon wffiom she laid any 
moral pressure in this matter were Malcolm and the servants. The 
boy took part in the choir, and he was generally in his place in the 
afternoon, as well as in the morning. The maid-servants mostly 
congregated to church at three o’clock, wiien their household work 
was done. Indeed, at that hour, on a fine Sunday, as this was, there 
were often not more than two or three servants left in the house; 
those who were not in church taking a walk, or visiting their friends 
in the village. 


IJfTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


87 


It 80 chanced that Malcolm that atternoon had a headache. His 
mother knew it was no excuse, for the boy was genuinely fond of 
singing in the choir, and punctually attended every practice. He 
hud a custom, dating from his childhood, of lying down on a certain 
sofa in his mother’s bedroom, if he ever felt unwell. This sofa was 
associated with headaches in the boy’s mind, and yet no other sofa 
in the house, he fancied, could rest and soothe him like ihis old 
ehintz-covered couch. It stood against the wall on the furthei side 
of the huge four-post bed, as one entered the room, and was partly 
concealed from view until one reached the foot of the bed. 

Malcolm fell asleep, and here his mother found him when she re- 
turned from church. 

She bent over him. “ How do you feel now?” 

“ 1 have still a headache, mother.” 

“ You were not disturbed, 1 hope? You generally sleep it off.” 

“ 1 was disturbed— somebody came in— 1 forget—” 

“Why, all the maids were at church, my boy! Nobody could 
have come in here. You must have been dreaming.” 

“ No, 1 wasn’t. 1 remember now, it was Roger. 1 heard a noise 
— something clickiug — andl started up, and there he was at the foot 
of the sofa. It startled me, I don’t know why, and sent the blood 
to my head. 1 asked him what he wanted, and he called me a 
milksop and a whining fool, and asked what the devil 1 w^as doing 
here? And then he went away, but it made my head worse.” 

Lady Davenport knew there was no love lost between her sons. 
Roger was not long-suffering of his younger brother’s infirmities; 
and Malcolm’s was far from being a large, generous nature, incapa- 
ble of retaliation. The retaliation'‘was, indeed, generally covert; he 
seldom openly complained of Roger’s treatment, or avowedly be- 
trayed any of his brother’s malpractices of which he might become 
cognizant. But Lady Davenport was perfectly aware of the source 
whence Lady Retford derived much of the information which deep- 
ened that lady’s dislike to her elder nephew. And the poor mother, 
though wise and just in her own estimate of her favorite son, and 
in her own conduct as regarded him, felt sorely on this point, and 
perhaps less impartial than she believed herself to bo in judging his 
brother’s behavior. 

“You know that Roger does not mean half he says. Why do 
you repeat it? It is an ugly habit, Malcolm, a habit unworthy of a 
man. A few works spoken in haste — you should attach no impor- 
tance to them. Y ou should not tell me, or tell your aunt, that they 
made your head worse— it is like a silly girl.” 

Lady Davenport spoke with a sharpness unusual to her, as she 
turned away. 

Roger said to his mother that evening, as he wished her “ good- 
night.” 

“ I am going to town by the tirst train with Mountjoy. I have 
business which will keep me all day, but 1 shall be back in the even- 
ing,” 

“ Pray don’t be late. Some more people are to arrive to-morrow 
for this ball on Tuesda^^” 

“All right. 1 shall be back for dinner.” 

“ Does Lord Mountjoy return?” 


88 


INTKODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


“ No, his leave is op; but 1 asked some more men down, who 
may try their luck with your heiress, if they please,” 

Then Lady Davenport guessed pretty well how the land lay. 

Catherine wrote in her journal that night as follows: — 

‘‘It is all over. The scales have fallen from my e 3 ’’es. 1 no 

longer think that a marriage with Koger Davenport could ever be 
for my happiness. 1 am very sorry tor him, 1 teel a deep interest 
in him still; but 1 could never continue to love a man whom 1 saw 
to be so inherently weak as he is. Perhaps Mr. Holroyd may be too 
hard on him; but Roger’s own words to me on Friday convicted 
him. 1 w^as to accept him unconditionall}^ now or never. He de- 
clined any probation, just as he shrunk from the prospect of an}*- 
hard work. He talked of mj'' ‘ influence,’ but w^hat influence could 
I ever obtain over him, if he would not submit to these conditions? 
He was asking me to marry him solely because I am rich. 1 know 
that 1 shall probably go through the world without finding one man 
who cares about me tor myself alone. 1 do not believe that 1 have 
the power of inspiring any strong passion; but at least 1 will not 
marry a man whom 1 despise. His allusion to Mrs. Courtland — his 
insinuation that he was trying to break away from her — filled me 
with amazement, and I must say, contempt. It he thought to com- 
mend himselt to me by it, he was mistaken. 

” My Sunday has not been a very cheerful one, but an incident at 
its close has amused me, though it confirmed my impression of the 
way in which 1 am regarded, and must be content to be regarded, 
even bj'' a man like little Lord Mountjuy. He proposed to me, and 
1 have not yet knowm him quite five days! When 1 laughingly re- 
minded him ot this, as an adequate reason for my not at once accept- 
ing the honor ot his hand, he seemed honestly surprised. He said, 
putting his little red face very near mine: 

‘‘ ‘ Well, it’s a little sudden, perhaps; butjmu see I’m going awuiy 
to-morrow morning, and so I’ve no time to lose. 1 know you’ve 
given Roger the sack — 1 could tell that by what he said last night — 
or else, of course, 1 wouldn’t intefrtcre with him. Honor among 
thieves, you know.’ 

” ‘ What was it Mr. Davenport said that led you to your conclu- 
sion?’ 1 asked quickly. 1 was outraged at the idea of his having 
alluded in the smoking-room to what passed between us. Lord 
Mountjoy’s answer reassured me, 

” ‘ ile said that he must cut oft to the Continent very soon; that 
all chance ot his being able to remain in England was at an end. 1 
knew what that meant. So 1 thought 1 might as well try my luck. 
We should get on awtully well together, I’m sure. 1 think you are 
one ot the jolliest girs 1 ever met, else I wouldn’t have asked you to 
marry me — 1 wouldn’t indeed.’ 

‘‘ 1 thanked him for the compliment, and said 1 felt sure he would 
not be unkind to me; but that 1 had resolved not to marry until 1 - 
was in love, ‘ And you see, 1 am not in love with you. Lord Mount- 
joy,’ 1 added. 

“ He urged that it was more important for two people to be likely 
to ‘ get on well,] as he called it, than that they should be in love, a 
Condition to which the frank little man made no pretense. He liked 


iNTROBUCEt) TO SOCTETV. 89 

me. and lie had a home, a name, a position to offer me, with com- 
plete independence; he would never attempt lo control me. 

“ 1 did not reply, as I felt inclined, that this was the last thing 1 
desired in a husband; that the man 1 marry must be one to whom 1 
would sacrifice all, and to whose control 1 should look as the ruling 
law of my life. Home words of Mr. llolroyd’s to-day crossed my 
mind. 

“ We met in the hall, and as it was the first time 1 had seen him 
alone since our interview the other morning, ! said: 

“ ‘ Thank you for your advice to me on Friday. I now know how 
wise it was.’ 

“ ‘ 'Vou acted upon it, then?’ 

“ ‘ 1 suppose 1 did in some degree. At all events, 1 have no 
longer any delusions on the subject we discussed. Mr. Daveupoit 
spoke to- me, and 1 answered him very openly; so my motives in do- 
ing wdiat 1 did for his mother’s sake can not be misinlerpreied. As 
far as lies in my power, I will lighten her anxieties; and you must 
help me to do this* Mr. Holroyd. if you know that ttie family is 
in any great strait, out of which money can take them, you must 
come to me. ’ 

“ He looked at me with a strange expression which I can hardly 
characterize; but 1 thought there was a touch of sarcasm in the 
smile, and in the tone, when he replied: 

“ ‘ If you dissipate your fortune thus, have you calculated the 
loss to yourself in the world’s estimation?’ 

" It was these words that recurred to me to-night, when Lord 
]\Iountjoy asked me to be his wife. Would this good-humored little 
fellow be so desirous of conferring on me the honor of his hand, if 
he knew that 1 was disposed to ‘ dissipate my fortune ’ thus in irra- 
tional generosity? There is not one man, no, not one of all those 1 
have met since 1 came here, who would take me, thus ‘ heavily handi- 
capped,’ as Mr. Charles Tliaue would express it.” 

’riie following day, Roger took Ihe first train to London, and at 
luncheon Catherine announced her intention of ridingover t(* inquire 
for Mrs. Courtland, alter her accident. 

‘‘ She slipped and fell, didn’t she?” asked Mrs. Latour. 

‘‘ One would have thought she was used to that,” said IVIrs. Hare, 
examining the roses on her Dresden china plate. 

‘‘ Used to it? 1 can not understand being used to falling!” was 
Mrs.. Latour's innocent response. 

JVIrs. Hare did not raise her e3'es, but murmured softly: 

“ Ce n’est que le premier pas qui coffte.” 

Lady Retford screwed up her eyes opposite, and laughed. 

” And when that ‘ pas ’ is a ‘ faux pas ’ people go on slipping, and 
falling, very easily — ha! ha!” 

” Vou English ladies, 1 do think, must be the most uncharitable 
in the world,"” cried Catherine. “ You are so pitiless on each other, 
and you never seem to give any one the benefit of a doubt !” 

She happened to catch Holroyd’s eye as she said this; and the 
glance she met was her reward. 

It w’as a mild afternoon. She rode at a foot’s pace, after cantering 
through the park, and her horse sunk up to his fetlocks in the slushy 


90 


IKTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


high-road, so that she had leisure to analyze her own motives in de- 
ciding suddenly, as she had done, to pay this visit. “ Why am 1 
going to see Mis. Courtland? A week since 1 was jealous of her; 
now^that feeling is extinct. Is it in consequence of the manner in 
which Koger spoke of her on Saturday? L believe, as his mother 
said, that he cares no more for Mrs. Courtland, seriously, than he 
does for me. But in spite of Lady Davenport, in spite of all the 
things I hear of this loolish little woman, 1 feel for her. 1 suppose 
1 have no business to do so, but is one forbidden to be sorry for, and 
to try and save, if it be possible, the silly moth that is flying toward 
the candle?” It was past four o’clock when she reached the village 
of Brook, which was also one of the stations on the London line, 
though not the nearest to Davenport, 

Mrs. Courtland was lying on a sofa in her boudoir. She looked 
ill, and seemed strangely restless and depressed. Her fair hair hung 
about her in a disorder which was far fiom unbecoming; andt) 
Catherine’s fancy she was more interesting, more attractive thus, 
than in all the bravery of a ball-dress which displayed perhaps too 
liberally her beautiful figure. It is possible she knew this. 

” How kind of you to come and see me!” sbesaid. ” INo one else 
has done more than send to inquire how 1 was. That is the way of 
the world — it takes all you can give it, till you are ill or in trouble, 
and then — good-by!” 

Catherine secretly felt that there was some truth in Mrs. Courtland’s 
complaini ; but she replied; 

” If you were poor and solitary, no doubt it would be dilierent. 
But you have a husband and children, and plenty of money. What 
can you want of the world’s sympathy?” 

” In the first place, my husband is always away, and if he were 
here— well! 1 had better say nothing about him. Then 1 have no 
maternal instincts. I can’t help it. 1 try to interest myself about 
the children, but 1 can’t. A few of the dull hunting men about 
here occasionally drop in on an ofi-day, and bestow their weariness 
on me; but I want something different from that. 1 want a wmman- 
friend — one I can tiust — and I haven’t one. Every wmman likes 
the sympathy of her owm sex, however much she may pretend to be 
indifferent to it. If I w’as ever about to commit any act of egre- 
gious folly. Miss dohnstone, 1 believe a kind woman’s voice, a firm 
hand, that 1 knew was that of a true friend, might stop me. But 
1 should never get it here. There is Lady Davenport, who is thought 
such a model, she is as hard and cold as a stone. 1 have done all I 
could to make her friendly to me, but she hates me — she hates any 
woman whom men like or admire.” 

” 1 do not come under that category,” laughed Catherine, and the 
laugh was tinged with a little bitterness foreign to her large, liberal 
nature. ” 1 do not believe she hates any one. She is like Justice — 
a little stern, perhaps, but even-handed.” 

‘‘ It is justice without mercy.” 

” Has she not had plenty to forgive? That may make her less 
indulgent, where she thinks that indulgence will only encourage 
folly.” 

” ’iou mean that 1 am ver}' foolish?” she said, leaning forward. 


INTliODUCED TO SOCIETY. 91 

And it seemed to Catherine, in the waning light, that there were tears 
in her eyes. There was but one answer possible to this. 

“ Yes, 1 am afraid you are.” 

” But isn’t everybody foolish about you, except your immaculate 
J.ady Davenport? It is so difficult to be wise. It is so difficult to 
know. Ah! if one could but know!” 

‘‘ Know what?” asked Catherine, bluntly. 

” Oh! so many things— or rather one thing— only one. But no 
mat ter. Tell me what you think of the Davenports as a family? 
Y'ou have a bad opinion of Sir Isormau, of course? He is a horrid 
old scamp, and has been the ruin of the family.” 

“ To a great extent, 1 suppose, but not entirely.” 

‘‘ Y’ou mean that poor Uoger has helped to complete what his 
father began? Well, and whose fault has that been? Sir Norman’s, 
who set him the example. You are noi going to be hard on him, 1 
liope! You pity him? 1 am sure you do — in your heart.” And 
she looked into Catherine’s face with keen scrutiny. 

” No,” returned her visitor, deliberately, “ 1 don’t. 1 believe 1 
did, but 1 see that 1 was a fool to do so. A young man may be ex- 
travagant, may get into debt, but why doesn’t he'work? it he had 
any self-respect he would not be a burden— a burden which he is 
continually making heavier — to his parents. He says he is going 
abroad very soon.” 

YIrs. Courtland waited a moment before she said, ‘‘ 1 see. He 
has proposed to you, then, and of course you have refused him, ” 

‘‘Is it ‘of course?’ Ask Mr. Davenport if you want to know; 
but this is one of the questions which ought never to be asked or 
be answ^ered, in my opinion.” 

“ I am answered. 1 asked because I am a great friend of poor 
Roger’s, and am deeply interested in him. 1 do believe it would be 
the very best thing for him if he married you. I do indeed.” 

“And for me? But you are mistaken; it would be goo il for 
neither of us, except in so far as that his present debts would be 
paid.” 

“ Y’ou think that he would only marrj" you for your money, then?” 

“ W'hat do ?/(yw think?” returned Catherine, looking her full in 
the face. “Y’ou are his great friend, and ought to know.” Mrs. 
Courtland colored, and seemed taken aback. The other continued, 
after a moment’s pause, “lam told that Mr. Davenport is not capa- 
ble of any strong attachment — that he has never known anything 
beyond a passing fancy for any one. Ij ntil he finds a woman capable 
of binding him with a strong chain — he had better not marry at all.” 

“ What woman will be wise enough to knoio if her chain be 
strong enough?” and Mrs. Courtland turned away, with a little un- 
easy laugh. It was growing dusk; she rose and rang the bell; and 
then approached the dock on the mantel-piece, 

“ It is only half-past four, but you will have some tea before you 
go?” 

Then Catherine rose, and declared she must be starting, so as to 
reach home before it grew quite dark. She felt — she scarcely knew 
why, a vague impression that Mrs. Courtland was not anxious, lor 
some reason or other, that she should prolong her visit. And yet, as 
soon as she held out her hand, the little woman seemed unaffectedly 


02 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


I 


distressed to part willi her, and made her promise to return in a few 
days’ time. 

“ You will not be at the ball to-morrow night, 1 suppose?” asked 
Catherine. 

” 1 don’t know. It depends on how I feel. Yes, 1 shall go if 1 
possibly can, though 1 shall not be able to dance; but to sit on a 
hard bench, wdth people round one, is better than to lie on a sofa in 
soliiude here.” 

” She is a mystery!’"’ thought Catherine, as she rode home. “ If 
she cared the least for Roger, she would not say that it would be the 
best thing tor him to many me! 1 know that Lady Davenport is 
right; she is neither a good wife, nor a good mother. She is vain, 
impulsive, and an outrageous flirt; but all the women shun her, and 
she clings to me; she seems to want my friendship. Under all her 
frivolity, she is evidently unhappy, and therefore it is, I suppose, 
that 1 feel more interest in her than 1 do in the other women. 1 
think 1 could obtain a little influence over her, in time. 1 never 
could have any over Mrs. Hare, or Mrs. Latour— the one too clever, 
the other too complete a fool, to need any help. ’ 

Just then, the shabby old dog-cart from Davenport passed her. 
Where was it going? she had the curiosit}’’ to turn round and ask 
her groom. 

” It’s a-goin’ to Brook Station, miss, to meet Mr. Roirer.” 

The down-train was due there at five. She now understood why 
Mrs. Courtland had not pressed her to remain longer. 


CHAPTER XVll. 

Roger Davenport stood in Mr. Israels’ back shop; and the doors 
were closed. 

Mr. Israels was a jeweler, well known to the gilded youth of 
London. In that branch of trade he had no partner, and transacted 
all his business himself. This often demanded tact, circumspec- 
tion, and perfect command of temper. In none of these qualitica- 
tions was Mr. Israels wanting. He w\as a smooth and oily — yet not 
offensively oily — man of forty, inclining to obesity, well dressed, 
invariably civil and discreet, in spite of anj'^ provocation*; the very 
opposite, in every respect, of Barton, with whom he was associated 
in mone 3 '’-lending transactions. That he could not shake himself 
clear of this connection, was a great trial to Mr. Israels. The ap- 
pearance and language of the insolent old usurer were a constant 
source of annoyance to his equally unscrupulous, but far more 
polished and diplomatic partner. The violence and the vindictive- 
ness of the ill-educated elder man were regarded as repreheusively 
weak and impolitic by Israels; extreme measures should never be 
resorted to until it was manifest that by no possibility could the 
victim yield another drop of blood. He had been averse from seizing 
Roger’s personal effects; and now that the young man’s debt was 
discharged in full, he doubly regretted Barton’s precipitancy, be- 
lieving that all further transactions with Sir Norman’s eldest son 
must be at an end. It was with unfeigned satisfaction, therefore, 
that he saw the heir to Davenport enter his shop. He at once led 
him into his private room. 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 93 

“ You behaved d d badly, Israels, in sending down to seize 

my things the other day.” 

“ 1 assure you, Mr. Davenport, it was not my fault. 1 regretted 
it e.\tremely. If in any future little difficult}, you would be kind 
enough to come to me, 1 would manage things more easily for you 
than Mr. Barton, wdio — ” 

” The infernal old brute! He had better not come in my way. I’ll 
pound him to a jelly. No. 1 shouldn’t dream of going to him. 
Y'oh’ve at least got a civil tongue in your head, Israels, though 1 be- 
lieve you’re just as big a scoundrel as your precious partner. 1 tell 
you that, just to show you 1 don’t mean to be done, in the matter 
that brings me here to-day.” 

Mt. Israels smiled blandly, and opened his cigar case. 

” Have a cheroot, Mr. Davenport? They’re first-rate, 1 assure 
you. No. Well, sir, what can 1 do to oblige you?” 

” It ain’t a bill. You won’t get me into youi clutches again just 
at present. But you can oblige me and yourself also, perhaps. You 
don’t, yourself, decide the value of jewels you buy, I suppose? 
There’s some fellow, whose sole business it is to do this — isn’t 
there?” 

” 1 generally trust IMr. Zimeri in any case of importance— but 1 
understand precious stones myself, pretty well. Have you anything 
here you wish to have valued?” 

He pointed to the parcel. Roger looked up, as he untied the 
string; there was a shade of hesitation in his manner. 

” Yes — and perhaps more than that. It would depend on the sum 
named.” 

” Perhaps, you had rather have Mr. Ziraeri’s opinion first?” 

But the string was by this time untied; and Roger had produced 
an old-fashioned leather case. At the sight of it, a curious, transient 
smile touched the corners of Mr. Israels’ thick red lips; but he said 
nothing, as Roger opened the case, and displayed the famous Daven- 
port sapphires and diamonds. The Jew took oat the necklace, and 
examined it minutely. He looked at the tiara, but with less care: 
as though he was already satisfied. The earrings he did not remove 
from the case. 

ytill he said not a word; and Roger, who stood opposite, w’^atch- 
ing his movements with knit brows, began to wax impatient. Mr. 
Israels walked leisurely to his desk, and wrote something on a slip 
of paper, 

‘‘Here is Mr. Zimeri ’s address, Mr, Davenport. Go to him, and 
hear what he says. 1 would rather he gave you his opinion first.” 

*‘ What — what do you suppose it would cost to replace these— sup- 
posing they wmre sold — with — with false stones.” 

Again the Jew smiled ever so faintly. 

” 1 can’t tell you no\v, Mr. Davenport. Go to IVlr, Zimeri, and 
see what he sa3\s first.” 

A couple of hours later, Roger, looking as he rarely did, heated 
and discomposed, hurriedly entered the shop again. 

‘‘ 1 have been to Zimeri— and to two other men — tor 1 didn’t be- 
lieve him. Do you know what they all pretend?” 

‘‘ They have told you the jewels are false, sir.” 

Jt’s a plant — you are ail in with each other: but I’m not to be 


94 


INTRODL-CED TO SOCIETY. 


cauglit so easily. These sapphires have been in my family over a 
hundred years, and have always till quite lately been kept at the 
bankers’.” 

” All right, sir,” returned Mr. Israels, with imperturbable good- 
humor. ‘‘ Take them round to the trade, and then— if you find 
what we tell you is correct, ask yourself ’’—here he dropped his 
voice, and leaned forward as though he feared that the walls might 
betray his suggestion — ‘‘ ask yourself whether the substitution you 
contemplated may not have been already made by some one else.’*’ 

Roger’s face changed. He clinched his lips tight for a moment 
before he spoke. 

‘’You don't mean — that my father — ” 

“ 1 betray do secrets, Mr. Davenport, yours or any one else’s. All 
1 affirm is that the real jewels have, at some time or other, been re- 
placed by false ones.” 

The young man brought down his fist upon the table with an 
oath. Conviction was borne in upon his mind: Sir Norman had 
been beforehand with him. Roger very rarely betrayed himself, as 
he did on this occasion. His face was white with passion, as he 
turned, without another word, to leave the shop. Unfortunately, 
it so happened that the venerable Hebrew who transacted business 
under tlie name of Barton, opened the door as the exasperated young 
man was about to pass out. 

” D— n you! get out of my way, you old brute!”— and hitting 
out straight from his shoulder, he knocked Mr. Barton down into 
the gutter, and strode onward, without even turning to give a look 
at his prostrate enemy. 

* * * *• •jt- * * 

Toward dusk, that same afternoon. Lady Davenport entered her 
bedroom, and opened a secret drawer in her bureau, where the key 
of the fire-proof cupboard in the corner of the room was kept. She 
veiy rarely took out the jewels; but it had suddenly occcurred to 
her that the clasp of her necklace when she wore it the other night 
had seemed insecure. She would run no risk to-morrow at this 
public ball, she must examine the fastening. But when she had 
opened the cupboard, the jewel case — as we know — was not there. 

On the first shock of this discovery, she turned deadly pale, aud 
leaned back against the sofa. Then she raised her hands to her 
head, and tried to steady her thoughts. After a minute they formed 
themselves only too distinctly. On Thursday the jewels had been 
sate; she had locked them away herself. The secret drawer where 
she kept the key of the cupboard was knovvn but to two persons. Sir 
Norman and Roger. She never took out the jewels nor put them 
away in her maid’s presence; and nothing else was kept in the same 
safe. No workman had been in her room of late. All pointed to 
one conclusion: the jewels had not been abstracted b 3 Mi stranger. 
Roger had suggested selling them — an idea which she had indig- 
nantly repudiated — and he had been into her room when she was 
out the previous day. Malcolm’s account of being disturbed by his 
brother, and of Roger’s irritability, recurred to her. Then he had 
gone to London this morning. As, one by one, these facts flashed 
upon her mind, she groaned aloud. Then she started up, and paced 
the room tor some minutes. Finally, she rang the bell for her maid 


IXTRODUCED TO SOOTETT. 


95 


anrl sent a message to the ladies, begging them to excuse her from 
comine down to tea; she was not feeling quite well. To face them 
all. to keep up the ball of conversation in her present frame of mind, 
w^as beyond her power. Roger would be back in less than an hour 
now. Had he not promised to be back by this train? Until she had 
spoken to him, she felt she could not command herself sufficiently 
to see anyone. 

“ Give orders that immediately Mr. Davenport returns, he is told 
that 1 wish to see him here at once — before he goes into ihe draw- 
ing-room.” 

But the train was due at the Davenport station soon after five, 
and Roger had not returned when the half-hour after six o’clock 
struck. 

She had been sitting motionless on the sofa, listening for the dis- 
tant sound of wheels; very cold as to her hands and feet (there was 
no fire in the grate; she rarely indulged in such luxury now’), but 
colder as to her heart. Where could she look tor comfort? That 
her son — her favorite, in spite of all his misdeeds— -could be guilty 
of this, was the sorest trial of the mauy she had been called on to 
bear. And that he was guilty, she could hardly doubt. That was 
the worst of it! Her insight into his character made her feel it was 
not impossible. She had heard him say, not long since, that it did 
not signify what a man* did, provided he was not found out. It had 
been said with a smile; but, not the less for that, had she the con- 
viction that his life was governed by this principle alone. 

There was no train due at Davenport again till Ions: after the din- 
ner hour. She rang her bell again. 

” Did not the dog-cart go to the station for Mr. Davenport? Is it 
returned?” 

”1 will inquire, my lady.” 

Presently the w’ouian came back saying that the dog-cart had 
gone to Brook Station, where Mr. Davenport had ordered it to meet 
him at five o’clock. It had not yet returned. 

Lady Davenport gave a sigh of relief. Tlie dread that he would 
not return at all — that he had never meant to return, had been grow’- 
inir stronger within her for the last half-hour. But itwras clear that , 
he had gone to Brooklands. He must soon be home now’. And she 
tried to build up another belief as a refuge in her misery. Had he 
been bent upon actually paw’ning or selling the jew’els, it w’as incon- 
ceivable that his thoughts should be sufficiently free to permit of his 
driving some miles out of his way home to philander with Mrs. 
Courihind. Whatever he had done in this matter, however culpable 
he .might be, the mischief could not be irretrievable, if he returned 
to Davenport. 

When, at a quarter-past seven, Roger jumped out of his dog-cart 
in the stable-yard, and was met by the message that her ladyship 
desired to see him immediately in her bedroom, he knew that the 
loss of the jewels had been discovered. He was prepared for this 
emergency. His original plan had been to leave the dining-room 
when the" men sat over their wine, and when the servants were at 
snipper, and replace the case in the safe, w’hich he could certainly 
do then unobserved. Their abstraction at some later period, for a 
few days, when the false would have been substituted for the real 


9G 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY* 


jewels, would, he had calculated, be equally easy. But he had 
fdways been prepared tor their bein/’ missed, and now that his ill- 
luck to-day had pursued him by detection ot his theft, he was in no 
way taken aback. To do him justice, he thought more at that nio- 
ment of his mother — anomalous as it may seem — more of sparing 
her unnecessary pain, Ihaii-ot his imperiled reputation. Instead ot 
taking oft his fur coat in the hall, he slipped up the back stairs with 
the parcel concealed in its capacious pocket. 

His mother met him at the door of the room. Schooled as she 
was to conceal her emotions, her voice shook, as she exclaimed, 

“Oh! Roger, what have you done?” 

“ Do you mean about your sapphires?” he asked, with a laugh, 
which lie was conscious did not sound quite natural. “ Here they 
are. 1 took them up to have them valued.” 

“ And did you think — did you really think — 1 or your father 
would ever consent to their being sold?” 

A smile, more natural, but not a very pleasant smile, curled his 
handsome mouth. 

“ 1 think my father might have been brought to consent. How- 
ever, you may dismiss the matter from your mind. 1 promise you 
to take no further steps in the matter.’ 

“ 1 can not so easily dismiss from my mind the idea that you 
meditated a dishonorable act. Y ou have wounded me, Roger, in a 
way that nothing else could have done.” 

“ I am sorry— why the deuce did you go to the safe? You would 
have known nothing about it. But don’t bother yourself any more. 
It is all right.” 

“ No!” she rejoined, with a vehemence to which Roger had never 
before seen his mother give way, “ it is not all right. " It never can 
be, as long as you lead this life of deceit and dishonesty. For it is 
dishonest, Roger. If your course is not arrested, if you go on as 
you have been doing, you will bring ruin and disgrace on all around 
you. 1 would sooner see you digging by the roadside than con- 
tinuing to lead the life you do.” 

The young man shiugged his shoulders, 

“ You will not see it continue long, 1 fancy— 1 shall cut across 
the water. Digging by the roadside would not suit me, and there 
seems nothing else left to be done here.” 

“Because you will not work. Because you lead a life of utter 
idleness — and worse. Look at Ylr. Holroyd. Think how he was 
till own among extravagant companions, when a very young man, 
and how he pulled himself up, changed his couise of life, worked 
hard, and supported his mother in comfort till she died. He is 
honored and respected by every one, and so might you be, Roger, 
all the more for showing strength of will to drag yourself up out ot 
the slough into which you have sunk. j\tr. Holroyd — ” 

“ Oh! Fm sick of his name. 1 hate the prig. I’ve heard of nothing 
but his virtues; I’ve had him crammed down my throat ever since 
1 was eighteen. And he is no better than the rest of us, after all,” 
he added, with a sneer, seizing the opportunity to divert his mother's 
attention into another channel. “ lie is a sly old fox, but 1 see his 
little game. He mean.s to go in for y^our heires.s — unless I’m very 


INTUODUCEI) TO SOCIETY. 9*/ 

much mistaken; and when he is left alone here he w'ill have all the 
running to himself.” 

He did not, in his heart, believe what he said; he had a convic- 
tion that Ihe tutor was seriously, honestly in love; but it suited his 
purpose to advance the other theory, which was, at least, plausible. 

Here the dressing-gong sounded. Lady Davenport replied : 

‘‘ Your suspicion shows how blinded you are by prejudice. Ilis 
avoidance of Yliss Johnstone is quite marked. He really never 
speaks to her, if he can help it.” 

‘‘ Doesn’t he? 1 think I could prove to you that they have had a 
good deal of secret communication — though the}^ do appear so dis- 
tant to each other in public. But the goog has sounded, and 1 must 
go and have my bath before dinner.” 

Thus he closed the interview with his mother. She felt that it 
would be uselesg at that moment to revert to the subject wdiich was 
of far graver import to them both than Philip Ilolroyd’s hopes and 
machinations—if any such existed. She must let him go now; but 
her heart was sore oppressed. There was nothing that she could 
appeal to in her son’s induratea nature; and she knew it. 


CHAPTER XVlll. 

There were several additions to the house-party at Davenport 
that evening; and Catherine was interested, as it w^as her nature to 
be, in meeting strangers, and in hearing all that was to be learned 
of their characters and history. 

Charley Thane took her m to dinner. She had at last begun to un- 
derstand why this young man, in spite of his impudence, not wholly 
Tree from affectation, was generally popular. In the first place, his 
good-humor was always unruffled, his self-complacency impertur- 
bable. Those aie possessions which make the wheels of life run 
very smooth. Then he had seen a great deal of the world, at home 
and abroad; and was by no means so empt 3 ’-headed as he at first 
appeared. His reading had been desultory, but it embraced a great 
variety of books. Catherine was amused to learn that his studies 
had occasionally even a definite object in view. He was now en- 
gaged upon a course of theology, he told her — ” for a fellow ought 
to have some religion— don't you think so. Miss Johnstqne?” To 
which she heartily agreed. Only it seemed to her, wh(« he named 
the works he was engaged in perusing, that the faith to be con- 
structed on these foundations would be somewhat rickety. 

She had not had so much conversation with him before, as she 
now had. He had loyally refrained from interfering with Roger all 
the week. Catherine was to be ‘‘brought down” by Davenport, 
if possible; he had been given to understand that clearly on his 
arrival; and Mountjoy’s feeble and futile attempts to divert the 
young heiress’s interest into another channel he regarded as very 
unhandsome. But Roger had now, undisguisedl 3 % as he expressed 
it, ‘‘thrown up the sponge.” Why should he not go in and try 
his luck? lie was to be here for two more days; and after tha‘i 
they w'ouid meet in London. He would do nothing precipitate, 
but she really did not seem a bad sort of girl— lots to say for her- 


98 


INTKODUOED TO SOCIETY. 


self— “ a kind of girl, you know, that is sure to get on in society.” 
He really might do much worse. 

The result of which reasoning was that Catherine was well enter- 
tained during dinner, and sung Charley’s praises to Mrs. Hare more 
frankly than was discreet, perhaps, w’hen the ladies retired to tne 
drawing- room. 

” He is amusing, isn’t he?” said Mrs, Hare plaintively. ” Hut 
don’t marry him, my dear, he wouldn’t suit you.” 

“Marry him!’ laughed Catherine. “What an idea! Does a 
man of that sort ever think of marrying? It is the first time he has 
ever condescended to say more than ‘ how d’ye do ’ to me.” 

“ Ah! He will probably ask you another question before long. 
Forewarned is forearmed.” 

“ 1 need no arms, 1 assure you,” returned Catherine, quickly. “ I 
believe 5 ^ou think 1 am a tool.” 

“ 1 think, as regards men, jmu are a little, my dear.” Mrs. Hare 
smiled pityingly. “ You are so very innocent, you see. You don’t 
know what wretches they all are.” 

“ I don’t believe it — 1 don’t want to believe it. Men are very 
much what women make them, 1 fancy.” 

“ What has Lady Davenport made of Sir Norman in five-and- 
twenty years?” 

Catherine hesitated. “ Perhaps she was not the right woman for 
him to have married. Perhaps a less good woman, but of a differ- 
ent character, might have exercised much more inlluence.” 

“ And Roger?” Mrs. Hare looked long and sentimentally into 
Catherine’s face, and then added slowly, “ Are you under the delu- 
sion, my dear, that there exists the woman who could exercise any 
lasting influence over him?” 

“ Perhaps not,” said Catlierine, and turned away. But the next 
minute the desire to express her thought, and to illustrate it com- 
pletely, which w'as characteristic of her, made her continue, “ A 
man to be lastingly influenced by love must be a man, and 1 begin 
to see that Mr. Davenport, like his brother, is not manly. He looks 
so— but he isn’t. He is w'eaker than a woman,” 

Then some one joined them, and no more w^as said on the subject. 

Half an hour later Catherine was seated alone on a sofa a iittle 
apart from the rest, some of whom w’ere seated at the whist-tuble, 
while mqst of the others w'ere preparing to play a round game. 
Catherine -#detested cauls. It was her only disqualification for 
country-house agreeability. it appeared unsociable to withdraw 
nightly from the circle, as she did; but she could not help it. 
“ This is the kind of sacrifice,” she used to say, “ which, as it can 
do no one any good, one is not called upon to make.” 

Charley Thane was geneially the prime mover of these diversions; 
but upon this occasion he had meant to have devoted liimsell to 
Catherine. T wo circumstances conspired to defeat this object: one, 
the persistence of Mrs. Latour, abetted by two young ladies, in 
declaring that they could not play without him; the other, that 
Catherine was no longer alone. Philip Holroyd, while apparently 
reading the newspaper, as he generally did of an evening, had 
looked up, and caught Catherine’s eye.’ She smiled, and iriade a 
scarcely perceptible sign to him to come and talk to her. He had 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


no 

put down his paper, and was now seated beside lier, when Charley 
''I'hane turned round. Ho lelegated “ that confoundedly cheeky 
tutor” to the internal regions, and then yielded to Mrs, Latour’s 
solicitations that he would join the table. 

The disproportion of causes to effects in life— the very small 
hinges upon which our actions turn — is a favorite theme of essay- 
ists. Catherine would not have made that little sign to HoJro5"d 
but for Mrs. Hare’s words, which had annoyed her. She saw that 
Thane meant to come and sit beside her, probably for the whole 
evening; and she knew the conclusions which Mrs. Hare and many 
others would draw' The young man had amused her at dinner 
well enough, and she had frankly said so; but he had never evinced 
any preference for her society hitherto; and if it were true that this 
sudden ” change of front ” meant more than that he founrt her 
tolerably good company, it was w’ell to show at once that she did 
not mean to encourage one young man after another to treat her as 
a target, whereat his shafts of fascination w'ere lo be aimed. IVIrs. 
Hare might be mistaken; it might only be her cynical way of re- 
garding most human actions; but Catherine was a little vexed at 
the suggestion which she felt underlay the words. Could no man, 
then, make himself pleasant to her for an hour but that be must be 
actuated by greed tor her money bags? Yes; there was one man, 
at least, with whom she might converse without his being suspected 
of an interested motive. The tutor, whose avoidance of her had 
always been so marked, whom she was onl}’^ beginning to know by 
slow degrees, but whom she already trusted as she did no other 
man in the house. She felt suddenly impelled to invite him to take 
the seat beside her. She began at once. ” I want to talk to you 
about Mr. Davenport. When you spoke about his going abroad, 
the other day, 1 thought you cruel to suggest his banishment. But 
1 have changed my niiind. 1 believe it would be the best thing for 
him, to be got out of the way of temptation —somewhere in the 
colonies, where he would be separated from — all his old associates 
for a few yertrs. ’ ' 

” Unless you put him on a desert island, 1 am afraid he will 
never be out of the way of temptation— but, no doubt, he would be 
belter in the colonies than here, or at the gambling-tables abroad.” 

” Well, 1 have been thinking of a way in which 1 might serve 
liim— if he would consent to be so served. Our business in Mel- 
bourne is now carried on by a man who arrived there, as a boy, 
without shoes and stockings, and whom my father took into the 
house, at first as a sort of errand-lad, 1 believe. He afterward be- 
came a clerk, and proved himself to be so clever and trustworthy, 
that he virtually conducted the business before my father’s death, 
and when that event took place it was found my father had left 
him the whole concern, charged with a certain debt to me. Mr. 
Grogan would do anything in the world forwie— anything, that is 
to say, which he did not think wrong. If 1 wrote to him and said, 
” A young Englishman is coming outlo J\lelbourne, ymu must find a 
post for him with a good salary; if not, you must make one — let 
him be your private secretary’’, or something of the kind ’ — 1 know 
Mr. Grogan would do it.” 

Philip Holroyd did not speak for some minutes. It was his habit 


100 


INTKODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


to lake refuge in silence when perplexed, instead of saying what he 
did not mean, or something which should mean nothing at all. At 
last he replied slowly, “ I am afraid Mr. Grogan would regret it.” 

” But is one to do nothing to try and help him?” she exclaimed 
impetuously. ” Is one to turn one’s back on a young man who is 
wasting his energies, and bringing misery on every one conned ed 
with him, when, by opening a door, it is possible he might be kd 
into {mother course of life?” 

” i did not say so,” returned Philip calmly. ” ‘ It is never too 
late to mend.’ If Roger consents to 2:0 out to Melbourne and to 
work, by all means give him the chance. 'What 1 meant was, that 
by writing to insist upon Mr. Grogan’s finding a high-salaried post 
for him, you were placing that gentleman in a ditlicult, perhiips, 
even a dangerous position. Any such post must be one of trust.” 

He looked at her steadily as he spoke. She could not but under- 
stand this implication, and her cheek flushed. 

‘‘ Do you mean that a young man in Mr. Davenport’s station — a 
man who, both on his father’s and mother’s side, has some of the 
best blood in England in his veins— is not to be recommended to a 
position of trust? And all because he has run into debt! Really, Mr. 
Holioyd, you are too hard — 1 might say, cruel.” 

” You urged me the other aay. Miss Johnstone, to give you my 
candid opinion ol Roger. 1 declined to do so, except in a very modi- 
fied way. You ask my advice now concerning him, and I have 
given it you as 1 could. 1 would not have done so to any one else, 
if you think me cruel, 1 can not help it.” 

” You luive been a soldier, and your ideas of duty and discipline 
and reliability are very strict, I believe. You are as hard upon your 
own sex, Mr. Holroyd, as all these good hidies here are on theirs.” 

‘‘ 1 never judge man or woman superficially. 1 do not trust what 
are called ‘ first impressions.’ My first impression of you, for in- 
stance, was entirely different from the one 1 now have. 1 am a close 
observer. Where no opportunity is given mo for close observation, 

1 keep my judgment in suspense.” 

“You certainly have had plenty of opporl unity of judging Mr. 
Davenport. Still, 1 can not help feeling that you are unduly preju- 
diced against him. He is so young, and has not had fair play.” 

The answer that rose to Holroyd’s lips he checked. 

“ You are like the generality of the world in this, and in this 
onl}’’,” he said with one of his rare smiles, “ that you ask for advice, 
being resolved beforehand only to follow it if it agrees with your 
own views.” 

“ I am not aware that 1 did ask for your advice,’' returned 
Catherine, laughing, “ but you, like the generality of the world, 
offered it.” Then seeing that he looked annoyed, she added 
quickly, “Forgive me! 1 didn’t mean that. Of course 1 wanted 
your opinion, even if I didn't ask it in so many words. But 1 
should be so ghid now, for his mother’s sake, and— and— every one 
else, if he could be got abroad, far— very far away, somewhere. It 
would be such a relief to me, on every account.” 

Fhilip saw what was passing in her mind, but he had the tact not 
to refer to it explicitly. 

Try and obtain any independent evidence you can as to Roger’s 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 101 

fitness for the post you suggest. If what you learn is not satisfac- 
tory, he will, at any late, have to go abroad somewhere, and that 
very soon. You may rely upon this.” 

She said nothing more; she thought it as well that the subject 
should not be pursued between them, and therefore it was that she 
asked him it his ” observation ” of varioiis members of the assem- 
bled party had been sufficiently close to form an opinion concerning 
them? He answered more unreservedly than she had expected, and 
with less severity of judgment. Indeed, his leniency toward the 
younger men who were leading, apparently, much the same lives 
as Roger, struck her forcibly. And as regarded that problem which 
she w'as constantly trying to solve— Mrs. Hare’s character— he said 
what Seemed to her to be very probably the truth, though it had 
never occurred to her exactly in that light before. 

” If she were not so clever, she might be wiser. Her cleverness 
is her snare. She is a bundle of contradictions, undisciplined con- 
tradictions. Sentiment and satire, large-heartedress and spite, ad- 
miration for what is good and pure, and a determination to follow 
her own course, whether right or wrong. She is so clever that she 
can persuade half the world, including herself, that she is deeply to 
be pitied. The other half, who persist in thinking she is to blame, 
are denounced as merciless Pharisees.” 

Presently, Caiherine said laughing, 

“ 1 am very curious. You have discovered lhat, haven’t you?” 

Y.es, 1 should say your curiosity was insatiable.” 

” AVcll then, it is devouring me, and has been for the last half- 
hour, to know what was the ‘ erroneous impression ’ you formed of 
me at first. 1 dare say your present impression is just as erroneous, 
but of course you won’t tell me that?” 

He turned a deaf ear to the last implied inquiry, but said at once, 
*‘ I will tell you my first impression, that you were a common-minded 
young woman, possessed with an inordinate idea of the value of 
your wealth, and a craving to be admitted to a society to which you 
did not naturally belong. 1 now know it was your curiosity and 
your restless activity of mind which made you wish to penetrate a 
world you knew nothing of, and which you have found out by this 
time, is not a better one than that 3 "ou have left.” 

‘‘ If you mean that 1 like as w^ell the society 1 was in before 1 
came here, you are mistaken. 1 left one or two friends in Melbourne 
whom 1 love dearly; and if I had been thrown with bright, clever, 
nice people when 1 landed in England, I should have been quite 
contented, 1 should never have been seized with the wild desire to 
see what the ‘ fashionable life ’ I had read of was like. As it is, 1 
am very, very glad 1 came here.” 

” So am I,” said Ilolroyd in a low voice; then he added quickly, 

” your coming has been of great service to Lady Davenport —and 1 
believe that you have learned the true worth of things you over-esti- 
mated perhaps. You see that people may be dull, and vulgar- 
minded, and worthless, though they belong to the ‘ best society in 
the land.’ ” 

” Y"es, but 1 also know that there are kind as well ns pleasant 
people in it, some in whose lives 1 shall always take an interest, and 
one or two who 1 think will always be my fast friends. By the bye, 


102 INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 

does it not strike you that Lady Davenport looks dreadfully ill to- 
night?” 

” Yes, 1 have been thinking so all the evening.” 

‘‘ Can anything have happened? any fresh anxiety?” 

“ Not that 1 know of. But her constant anxiety tells upon her, 
and she is unused to the fatigue of a large party in the house.” 

‘‘We are to move to London very soon now,” said Catherine. 
‘‘ Then 1 hope she will be better.” 


, CHAPTER XIX. 

The following morning Miss Johnstone received a letter written 
in a strange, flourishing hand, bearing the Loudon post-mark. Its 
contents, which ran as follows, perplexed and distressed her greatly, 

” Madam, — Y’ou deniea to me the other day that you was going 
to marry Mr. Roger Davenport, but common Rumor says it is true, 
and 1 believe you was the party as paid up the thirteen hundred 
pounds for him. Weather or not, it is right that you should know 
what his charakter is, and 1 am acting as a frend in telling you. 1 
don’t care who knows that 1 say it— he is no gentleman: he is no 
better than a common thief: his behavior to me justifies me not 
sparing him. Y"ou ask him what he was doing with her Ladyship’s 
saphires and diamonds yesterday— and see what he says. He tried 
to sell them to my partner, Mr. Israels, and get false stones put in 
their place. The reason he did not sucsede was from no fault of 
his. He stole them— that is what he did; and if you doubt my 
word, you ask her Ladyship. 

‘‘ Y^ours to command, 

‘‘ JosiAH Barton.” 

Catherine read this with a glow of indignation and disgust at the 
writer’s outrageous accusation, no less than at his insolent familiar- 
ity. It carried its own falsity on its face. It was a monstrous slan- 
der, concocted by this infamous Jew out of spite for something 
Roger had done. It was disgraceful. VVhat! steal his mother’s 
jewels? The idea was too preposterous. Then she reread the let- 
ter in a more judicial temper; and for the first time a horrible doubt 
as to whether so direct and open a charge could be made without 
some ground forced itself upon her. What should she do? Should 
she do anything? After all, the refutation of such a charge — the 
rehabilitation of Roger Davenport’s character — no longer concerned 
her, directly, as it might have done a few days since. But was it 
just to allow such a slander to remain unrefuted? To let it prejudice 
her mind, as it could not fail to do, unless proved to be false, with- 
out satisfying herself on this point? And yet to drop any hint of 
such a character to Sir Norman or Lady Davenport, as the writer 
suggested, would be a direct insult. Still less could she speak to 
Roger, after what had passed between them. She was ignoramt of 
his exact position toward these Jews, but it w’^as clear that certain 
transaciions had led to this letter; and to show it t(* him might be 
dangerous. There w'as but one person to whom she could apply, 


IKTRODtJCED TO SOCTETf. 


103 


without risk, who might devise means of rebutting this libel. She 
hesitated; for Philip Holroyd’s dislike to his former pupil was un- 
concealed ; but on second thoughts she cast her hesitation aside as 
unworthy. He was too upright and just, she was convinced, to 
allow any personal feeling to influence his action or his decision in 
such a matter. 

But it BO chanced that the day passed without her having an op- 
portunity of speaking to him alone. He disappeared with Malcolm 
after luncheon, and neither then nor at dinner was she near him. 
Tliane sat next to her again; and indeed scarcely left her all the 
afternoon, during a long "walk, in which all the younger members 
of the party joined. Catherine would willingly have dispensed with 
this assiduity, though she really found him pleasant, in spite of his 
absurdities: but as no one came to her rescue— Roger studiously 
avoided her, and all the other young men held aloof — she had no 
choice but to submit. When, however, he wanted her to engage 
herself to him for several dances during the evening, she was ecpial 
to Ihe occasion. 

“ The first square? Yes; if you like it, and one w^altz later on? 
Yes, which shall it be? But 1 can’t dance with you all night, you 
know — it would be monotonous for both of us. I am a savage, re- 
member, just caught, and 1 want to see the world. Now, 1 might 
just as well pass the evening at home here as drive live miles to 
C , if 1 am to dance only with you.” 

He replied in (he same bantering tone, t)ut he had the good taste 
to desist from pressing her further. His opinion of the young 
woman was decidedly raised. As he expressed himself to a friend, 
” One has to do all one knows to keep up with her. She is deuced 
sharp. Life wouldn’t be as dull as it is if all the girls one had to 
talk to w^ere like her.” 

The whole of the Davenport party went to the ball; an omnibus 
and two carriages full. How willingly would poor Lady Davenport 
have remained behind — she fell so little capable of wearing her 
mask, and hiding the aching anxiety at her heart before the whole 
county. It was bad enough at home, but abroad the trial wjis 
doubly severe. Had she known the truth— had she known that the 
tiara fmd necklace she fastened with such care were but of glass, 
and that the substitution had been effected by her husband months 
ago when she believed the jewels to be at the bank— she would never 
have shown her face in societ}’^ agaui. Catherine had observed with 
concern the increased pallor and look of weariness on her face dur- 
ing dinner. When it was over, she whispeied, 

‘‘ 1 am sure you are very tired. Don’t go to the ball on my ac- 
count, please. Lady Retford will chaperone me, and — ” 

‘‘It is not Lady Retford’s duty, and it is mine, my dear. Be- 
sides, Sir Norman would be annoyed if 1 did not go.” 

” As to its being a duty toward me, dear Lady Davenport, surely 
if 1 don’t wish you to perform it--” 

” No, my dear, 1 have undertaken to introduce you. If 1 shirk 
doing so on the first really public occasion that presents itself, 1 am 
not fit tor the post.” 

” She is fit for any post, even in heaven,” said Catherine to her- 
self, as she went upstairs to put on her cloak. She felt certain that 


104 


INTEODUCED TO SOCIETT. 


some severe sorrow had been added to the weight this admirable 
woman bore with such heroic fortitude. Could it be concerned in 
any way with the monstrous libel against Roger contained in that 
vile letter? 

The assembly-rooms at C , now some eighty years old, are as 

meager and dingy as such saloons devoted to festivity usually are in 
England. While the smallest German Bath can afford a “ Kur- 
saal ” of stately dimensions, freshly, if not alwa^-^s tastefully, deco- 
rated, there is scarcely a tovsm in England, if we except the great 
commercial strongholds of wealth, and one or two watering-places, 

that is better off than C in this respect. Even the metropolis is 

niggardly in the accommodation it provides for public entertain- 
ments, tire old drab-colored haunts of fashion in St. James’s, con- 
secrated by the “ prestige ” of Alnmcks, and the dirt of several gen- 
erations of dancers, being nearly all it has to offer. 

As Catherine entered the room with Lady Davenport, a quadrille 
was being formed, and Thane, who had jjreceded them in the omni- 
bus, at once led his partner to her place opposite the Duchess of 
Deal, who had engaged him as her ms-d-vis. 

On the hard moreen benches at the upper end of the room sat the 
great ladies of the count}’^ — not all together; far from it. On one 

side the 'Whigs (w^e never call them Liberals in C shire), with the 

Davenports and the county member’s famil 3 ^ On the other, the 
Tory faction, headed by tjiat imperious politician. Lady Longridge. 
whose virulent abuse of Mr. Gladstone it w^as thought would make 
the great leader quail in his shoes, could he hear her, wdth the 
Duchess of Deal, and Mrs. Courtland, and a large gathering of 
“smart” people from London. This was unquestionably the 
younger, livelier, and more attractive section; that upon the op- 
posite side being — "with the exception of the Davenjxirt party — 
representative only of a solid and aggressive respectability. Of 
course the two rival factions interchanged civilities— paid eacl» 
other visits — danced with each others’ daughters, and even coal- 
esced upon the neutral ground of a central bench, with apparent 
cordiality; but they all held to their own fastnesses. 

The duchess said to Catherine, with a beaming smile during the 
quadrille, as they stood for an instant together, 

“Come and sit by me. Miss Johnstone, when this is over. 1 
want to fix a time for you to come and stay at Barrencourt. ” 

“ Shall you go?” asked Thane, who heard this. 

“ Probably not. We move to London very soon.” 

“1 almost vowed that I’d never go to Barrencourt again, for 
they put me into a north room the last time I was there; but if 
you’ll go. I’ll tell the duchess that I’ll come.” 

“ That is an irresistible attraction, of course,” returned Catherine, 
demurely. “ Still, I should like to be sure of it before 1 accept. 
The Castle might be full, you know.” 

He did not mind her chaff, and replied, laughing, that he was 
pretty sure there would be room for him. She felt encouraged to 
continue. 

“ 1 do so want to know. Captain Thane, why you shouldn’t have 
a north room as well as any one else?” 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


105 

“ Because 1 don’t like it. If a fellah don’t mind it, he’s quite 
right to go.” 

” I thought you had been through the Zulu War?” 

” So 1 have. What then?” 

” And do you mean to say you won’t join a pleasant party, for 
fear of being put into a north room?” 

” On the contrary, 1 say 1 will join a pleasant party. If there’s 
anything to be gained by it, I’ll sleep on the bare ground, not other- 
wise.” , 

” What a sordid view of society!” cried Catherine, gayly. ‘‘ Do 
you always calculate the probable loss and gain before you accept 
an invitation?” 

” It’s as well to do so before one goes to Barrencourt. The duch- 
ess plays high points, and their cook is awfully bad, you know. 
I’m not going to encounter the dangers of that north-west passage at 
the Castle in .January again, unlessl’ve some strong attraction.” 

” Ah, 1 see; you want a bill of fare, to know who is to be your 
•piece de resistance^ and whether your side-dishes will be to your 
taste, before you go. I’m glad my appetite is not so i)ampered. Cap- 
tain Thane. 1 can take my chance of sitting next to any ordinary 
man, like yourself, day after day, without expecting any attrac- 
tion!” Thus she chafled him, andjie laughed good-humoredly in 
return, throughout the quadrille, w hen it was over, 

‘‘ 1 am not going to sit by the duchess,” she said. ” Lady Daven- 
port is alone. I’ll go to her.” 

But on their way they passed near Holroyd, who stood talking 
upon foreign politics with the county member. Catherine stopped 
deliberately. 

” 1 want to speak to you, Mr. Holroyd. Will you take me to tea 
during the next square dance?” 

He bowed and she passed on; but Charley Thane was more put 
out by this than he had been by her quiet ridicule. 

‘‘Deuced had form,” he said to himself, ‘‘asking a fellah like 
that to take her to tea! One’ll have to cure her of that sort of 
thing.” 

A succession of people came up and spoke to Lady Davenport, 
and she introduced them to Catherine. Her engagement card was 
soon filled up; but she kept two consecutive dances free for her con- 
versation with Philip. Mrs. Hare sat on the other side of her, and 
the running fire of her comments on those who passed was charac- 
teristic. 

‘‘How well Mrs. Courtland looks to-night!” — this in her most 
silvery voice. ” Bather like a Nautch girl, perhaps, with all that 
gold embroidery, and sequins, and bangles— but no, 1 see, she is not 
undressed for dancing — those flowing draperies would fall if she 
moved rapidly. She is more like a cheap print of * The Light of the 
Harem,’ or what 1 suppose they call in Eastern lands ‘ a lump of 
delight ’ for the Sultan. She pretends to be listening to Lord Bar- 
rencourt, but she has hardly taken her eyes oft Roger Davenport 
since she came into the room— lui, il recule, pour mieux sauier." 

“ Who is that very pretty girl in pink?” asked Catlierine, abrupt- 
ly, by way of changing the subject of her companion’s observation. 

” That? That, 1 am told, is an attorney’s daughter from the town 


106 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


here. Her eyes are like the first star in the evening— -she ought to 
inspire that young poet. Mi. Frail, with a sonnet — (the fat, un- 
W'holesome-looking man who is talking to Malcolm). She would 
have done so three hundred years ago; but the romance of love at 
first sight, or ot a hopeless life-long attachment, like Petrarch’s for 
Laura, is a tiling of the past. What has Mr. Frail written, did you 
ask? A good deal of fleshy poetry, pink and white, without much 
muscle, but extraordinarily supple — what may be called acrobatic 
verse, ingenious in its convolutions and distortions, but devoid of 
any real thought or heart. He is an epitome of the young poetry of 
the nineteenth century, cleverness instead of genius, sensuality in- 
stead of passion, vanity and self-glorification instead of the devotion 
to and glorification ot another.” 

” Perhaps he has never yet been in love,” laughed Catherine. 
” You can’t expect a man to write about what he hasn’t felt.” 

“ No, that is just it. Men of the stamp of Mr. Frail aie incapa- 
ble ot il. They play at it. they will versify about their lacerated 
feelings; they will wu-ite and receive letters from women, which 
they will show about to their friends; lliey will w^eep and tear their 
hair; but of deep, manly, silent absorption of their own being in 
that of another they have not an idea! Such creatures can’t write 
about what they have never felt. You are right!” 

As was so often the case with Mrs. Hare, beginnins: with satire, 
she had worked herself up into making a protest, more passionate 
in its indignation than the subject or the occasion warranted. 

” Well, as 1 never read poetry, 1 am sure 1 don’t care. 1 don’t 
suppose it makes much difference to any one what he writes. Oh! 
there is a waltz beginning, and 1 am engaged to Lord Barrencourt. 
By the bye, 1 have just been asked to stay there. Shall 1 go or not; 
what do you say?” 

” It depends, my dear Mrs. Hare’s voice w^as again soft and 
low — ” it depends on what you w’^ant — on what you expect to get.” 

‘‘ Good gracious! you are like Captain Thane. What could 1 ex- 
pect to get except a little diversion? It is very good-natured ot the 
duchess to ask me — but 1 scarcely know her.” 

“ It is not at all good-natured, my dear. You are too honest to 
fall into that conventional cant. She would not ask you if she did 
not want you. She has her own very good reasons for doing so. 
As to diversion, you are not the sort of girl who wdll encourage a 
man and then throw him over— though 1 am told you have refused 
three men within the last three days.” 

” It is not true—” but before she could say any more Lord Bar- 
rencourt stood before her, stammering — 

“ 1 think — this is — our — ” 

She took his arm, and in another minute was w'hirling round the 
room. 


CHAFI’ER XX. 

Cathehine sat in the tea-room, which w^as nearly empty, and be- 
side lier w’as Philip Holroyd. 

” 1 want to consult you again,” she began. ” It seems as if 1 
w^ere always consulting you I But we both wish to spare poor .Lady 


ikthoduced to society. 


107 

Davenport pain, if possible, and you are the only person who can 
help me in a matter which would distress. her beyond measure if it 
came to her ears. Read that ’’—she drew out the letter and gave it 
to him. “ Of course 1 don’t believe a word of the accusation it con- 
tains. The man who wrote it must le a scoundrel. But that is not 
enough. It ought to be disproved. What can 1 do?” 

He read Barton’s letter twice from end to end with a knit brow. 
Then, when he had folded it up slowly, he held it in his hand for 
a minute, looking at the blank wall before him, as if the course to 
be pursued were written there, but that he was resolved to make no 
mistake about it. 

” 1 think you had better do nothing,” he said at last. 

‘‘ Why do you say so?” 

*' You have only been here a few weeks, and your position is a 
peculiar one. You had better not mix j^ourself up in the family 
aftairs — they are muddy waters. If you contemplated— even re- 
motely — marrying Roger Davenport — ” 

” That i distinctl}’^ do not,” she interrupted. 

“ Then it would be different. As it is, you had far better dismiss 
the subject of this letter from your mind. It was written in re- 
venge, n*^ doubt, under the impression that it would inflict the most 
serious injury on Roger by damaging him in 5 'our eyes.” 

‘‘ 1 should certainly never allow it to do that,” she said, more 
decidedly than perhaps some secret andinvoluntary doubts justified. 
” btill 1 think it shameful to allow such a charge as this to remain 
unrefuted. This wretch may have written other similar letters, ]\lr. 
Davenport’s character may be whispered away behind his back, 
without his being allowed an opportunity of proving his innocence!” 

“ And what if he can not prove it?” Holroyd looked at her stead- 
ily in the face as he said this. 

“Mr. Holroyd! it is impossible. You can not mean— you can 
not believe — ” 

” 1 do not say I believe, or disbelieve. Miss Johnstone. That has 
nothing to do with it. What 1 ask you to consider is, first, how you 
are going to proceed in order that Roger may clear his character ? 
Secondly, whether your position will not be most painful supposing 
he is unable to do so completely? There may be some substratum 
of truth in this, which it would greatly distress the family should it 
become known to you. You had better remain as ignorant as you 
can of all the skeletons in their cupboards.” 

‘‘ I am sure 1 don’t w'ant to know them. 1 don’t want to appear 
in this matter at all, it would be very disagreeable. But 1 feel that 
it would be disloyal to Lady Davenport to let her son be traduced 
thus, and to make no effort to clear his character. You could do 
this, it you chose, Mr. Holroyd, without compromising me in the 
inquiry.” 

‘‘ What is it you wish me to do? To speak to Roger? 1 think 
it very likely he will not answer me, or he will resent the inquiry. 
My position as regards him is singular; for he knows my opinion 
of him, and yet 1 have been the ostensible means of his delivery 
from this Jew’s clutches. And now you want me to render him 
another service, if it be possible? Well! 1 will doit, because you 
ask me. But 1 am afraid you are mistaken. 1 believe it would be 


108 INTKODUCED TO SOCIETY. 

better to burn this letter, and try to forget it. If Roger indignantly 
rebuts the charge, or if he declines to say anything, 1 am equally 
driven to apply to this Barton, and he will, of course, reiterate his 
accusation. He is a man whom you — very rightly — say you do not 
choose to believe, but what will you have gained? How will Roger’s 
character be re-established?” 

Catherine took him up quickly. 

” You argue upon the assumption that Mr. Davenport will not be 
able to prove the entire falsity of this story. 1 have no donbt he 
will be able to do so, to my satisfaction, and, I hope, to yours,” 

” If that is meant as an insinuation, you know it to be unjust — 
or you would not ask me to meddle in this matter. 1 have no love 
for Roger ; but for his mother’s sake 1 would give a great deal to 
be able to prove him innocent.” 

“lam sure you would. 1 did not mean to insinuate anything, 
except that your masculine mind might not accept an explanation as 
readily as mine w'ould.” 

” That 1 think very possible,” he said, with a momentary smile. 
He added gravely; ” 1 feel that you have a right to know the truth, 
it it can be learned, becatise you have befriended Roger as certainly 
no one else would have done; and you want to do so still farther by 
recommending him to Mr. Grogan. Therefore, though I still think 
it would be wiser for you not to mix yourself up in his affairs, 1 will 
do my best to learn the truth, and 1 shall report to 3^011 faithfully the 
result of my interview with him.” 

Their conversation was interrupted here by the entrance of Roger 
himself, accompanied by Mrs. Courtland; and as Catherine had had 
no opportunity as yet of speaking to the pretty, foolish creature, she 
rose and advanced toward her. 

“Oh! 1 am so glad!” cried Mrs. Courtland, leaving Roger’s arm 
and clasping Catherine’s hand in both of her own, ” 1 wanted so 
much to go and sit by you in the ball -room, but ’’—here she dropped 
her voice — ” 1 hadn’t the courage to face Lady Davenport. Do you 
kuow she almost cut me when 1 passed lier?” 

” 1 shall go and sit by you then, presently,” said Catherine. 

” Only don’t be too long over your tea, please, because, afier the next 
dance, 1 am engaged all the evening.” 

This was a bold interference with Roger, who had certainly meant 
to remain in the tea-room the best part of an hour. And it was run- 
ning openly and directly counter to Lady Davenport’s wu’shes that she 
should thus parade her intimacy^ willi JMrs. Courtland by crossing 
the room to sit beside her. But Catherine had rapidly weighed the 
pros and cons in this case. She 'was acting with her eyes wide open; 
at least, she thought so. 

” What have you got to do with that girl?” asked Roger sharply, 
as soon as Catherine and her companion were out of ear-shot. ‘‘What 
earthly good can it do you to pretend to be so affectionate with her?” 

‘‘1 don’t pretend. 1 like her very, very much. If there were 
more women like her, I don’t think 1 should hate my own sex as 
I do,” 

Roger laughed. ‘‘ Let us thank— shall 1 say the devil? — there are 
not. Great, big, coarse creatures like that with wills of their own, 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 109 

find opinions, and all the rest of it— they’re not the sort of ■women 
for me.” 

‘‘No — that’s why she refused you.” IMrs. Courlland darted a 
sharp look at the impel turbable ivory mask close to her. “ It is no 
use your denyins; it — 1 know you proposed.” 

” A.nd if 1 (lid? What drove me to it? Desperation! You 
don’t suppose it it wasn’t for her money, that 1 should look at such 
a girl twice, do ^mu?” 

” 1 think she is a great deal too good for you, and that you would 
have been only too lucky if she had accepted you.” 

We are not concerned to dwell upon the rest of their conversation, 
■which lasted some ten minutes longer. Any close observer, watch- 
ing those faces, would have guessed pretty nearly the relative posi- 
tion of the two: the complete subjugation of the woman in spite of 
the struggle to be free; the pitiless determination of the hunter not 
to allow the prey he had brought down, and which he now held 
within his grasp, lo escape him. Her color came and ■vi'ent: her 
eye shifted uneasil}', and was rarely raised to his; she spoke but lit- 
tle, and what she said was uttered in that sharp and almost irritable 
tone, which was as a feeble protest against the fascination he exer- 
cised over her. It was in vain that she tried to resist the influence 
of his voice— the voice that was dropping poison into her ear. 

At last she broke away, crying in a tremulous voice, 

‘‘ 1 will listen to you no more. I will go back to the ball-room.” 
She was some yards from him before he could overtake her. ^Oe 
had no choice but to give her his arm, for he saw that several pwple 
w’ere watching him. She looked very pale as she sat down on the 
bench near the duchess. A minute later Catherine joined her. 

The substance of what passed between them, together with Cath- 
erine’s impressions thereon, will be given in her ovn words pres- 
ently. At this moment we are more concerned to follow Roger. 

He looked round the room, and met the upward glance of two or 
three bright young faces eager tor a dance. But he was in no mood 
to exert himself to be agcceable just now wu’thout a definite object 
in view. His temper was ruffled; he would soothe it by a cigar 
down stairs. Holroyd, who was watching him, followed Roger from 
the ball room and into the smoking-room below. It -w'as empty. 

‘‘ I wished for a few minutes’ conversation with you uninter- 
rupted,” began Philip, ” and we may perhaps have it here.” 

“Perhaps,” echoed Roger languidly, as he drew out his cigar- 
case, and offered it to Holroyd. 

But the other shook his head. He stood erect, his eye fixed on 
l^oger; who, for his part, threw himself into an easy-chair, crossed 
his legs, and looked into the fire, at his faultless boots, at the end 
of his cigar, anywhere but at the penetrating eyes that were bent on 
him. 

“1 am going to ask you one or two questions,” said Holroyd, 
“ and 3^ou will answer them, or not, as you please. But 1 wish 5^11 
to understand that my sole object in doing this is to try and clear 
your character of a charge which, if it be allowed to circulate un- 
challenged, will do you an amount of injury that a whole life-time 
will not wipe out. 1 am quite willing to believe, indeed 1 feel cer- 
tain, that this accusation would not have been made, if you had not 


110 


INTUODUCKl) TO SOCIETY. 


iDcurred the doadl}’^ enmity of one of those Jews whom I saw the 
other day about your affairs. ” 

Roger looked up tor an instant. Quick as lightning he guessed, 
it northe exact truth, at least the main fact, that information of yes- 
terday’s transaction had reached Hulroyd’s— his chief enemy’s— ears. 

“ 1 kicked Barton into the street j'esterday,” he said, without a 
moment’s hesitation. “ Now then, what does he accuse me of?” 

“ He says that you abstracted the family jewels yesterday, and 
brought them to him, wishing him to substitute false ones in their 
place.” 

“ You see them on my mother to-night. Is not that sufficient refu- 
tation of the lie?” 

“ Hardly. He insinuates that he would not be a party to the trans- 
action. At least he says that it was ‘ no fault ’ of yours that it did 
not come off.” « 

Roger affected impatience. “ Do you mean to believe the word 
of a damned scoundrel like Barton against mine?” 

‘‘ You have not yet denied that you took the jewels to him.” 

Roger winced visibly this time; his color betrayed him. 

‘‘ 1 do not deny it. 1 did take them to him, to be valued— only 
lobe valued.” 

” May 1 ask with what object— as they can not legally be sold?” 

‘‘ You had better ask my father what arrangement he proposed to 
make with his cousins. Heir looms can’t go on forever, you know.” 

” Am 1 to understand, then, that it was with Sir Norman’s knowl- 
edge that you took the jewels up yesterday?” asked Philip, half 
incredulous and halt indignant. If this was, indeed, a plot concocted 
between father and son, he saw at once that it might be made to 
w’ear the aspect of a plausible transaction. But how about Lad}-- 
Davenport? That she w^as privy to it he would never believe. 

” 1 really do not see what business it is of yours,” said Roger, 
with quiet insolence; ” but as you insist on interfering in our fainily 
affairs, you had better ask him what is the estimated value of the 
jewels. Y^ou can say that 1 desired you to ask him.” 

An evil smile played about the young fiian’s mouth. Holroyd 
■was baffled; there w’as something here which escaped even his acute- 
ness. To extract the truth, or anything approaching to the truth, 
from Roger, he saw was hopeless. And since the introduction of a 
new element into this mystery, his further insistence was useless, 
even it it could be held to be justifiable. 

‘‘ 1 have no intention of speaking. to Sir Norman on tlm subject. 
He wmuld have a* perfect right to talk of my ‘ interfering in his fam- 
ily affairs.’ You have not, because, 1 toldj’ou, at starting, that my 
only object in asking you. these, questions W'as to try and clear yoii 
of a serious charge. Unfortunately, your replies do not help me to 
do so, but from the moment your father’s name is mixed up in the 
affair, my lips are sealed. It rests with him to clear your char- 
acter.” 

” It is not likely to suffer from the lies an infernal Jew tells — ex- 
cept with those wdio wish to believe the \vorst of me.” 

” Y’our mother is not of that number, but 1 trust the story may 
not reach her ear, all the same.” 

Roger was silent for a few moments He felt sure that Barton 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


Ill 


would not write the truth to his mother. What would he gain by 
BO doing? Having dischaiged his venom in eommunicating with 
Ilolroyd, it was the man’s interest to be silent now. A lawsuit 
might damage him in many ulterior ways, besides the very possible 
direct injury of making him disgorge the jewels, which no doubt he 
had purchased at much below their value. Therefore, he replied, 

“ 1 trust not, as she will continue to wear them undisturbed— as 
long as Sir Norman lives. The affair is at an end, so 1 hope it will 
not be named to her.” 

” 1 hope not. But though you treat Barton’s accusation so light- 
ly, you forget one thing. Unless you, or Sir Norman, take steps to 
prevent this Jew’s circulating his version of the transaction, no one 
will believe in your entire innocence. Whoever allowed himself to 
be traduced and did not give his traducer the lie?” 

Koger shrugged his shoulders. ‘‘ 1 have given him the lie often 
enough, and I’ve kicked him. I’m not going to sue him for libel — 
it wouldn’t suit my book. My father may do what he likes.” 

” You will remember that though you choose to bring his name 
into this affair, you were the acting party in it; it \^you who arc ac- 
cused, not Sir Norman, whom Barton does not even mention. How-' 
ever, you must take your own course. Only, 1 tell you plainly, 
Roger, if you can’t face this like a man, j^ou are lost.” 

He had rapidly reviewed the situation while Holro)’^d spoke. He 
never lacked decision in emergency. He must change his tone; he 
could no longer afford to be insolent if Holrojul was to be bam- 
boozled, but he would inflict a home-thrust which should teach this 
meddler to look out for himsell. 

“ Of course you’re right, and I’m much obliged to you for speak- 
ing. 1 fancy these lies were invented chiefly for y(nir benefit. Perhaps 
Barton had reason to think you were likely to spread them where 
they would injure me most. Of course, he was mistaken. But, 
somehow, 1 doubt his propagating them any further. He can gain 
nothing by doing so. If he does, 1 must see what is to be done. 
But at present my hands are tied. The secret is not mine; it is an 
intricate affair, and if 1 moved in it 1 might bring about a catastrophe 
which you would not wish, for it wmuld ruin others, and leave me 
untouched.” 

It was the second lime he had implied that Philip would rejoice 
in the confirmation of the story, and the allusion to Calherine con- 
veyed as much annoyance as it was intended to do, but the elder 
man did not condescend to notice it. He stood there like a judge, 
resolute, unmoved; and the other, who sat at Ihe bar of bis judg- 
ment, with a tliin srrcastic smile flitting across the handsome mask 
from time to time, felt that his woven tissue of truth and falsehood 
only puzzled, it did not deceive the keen intelligence with which he 
w'as in contact. 

” 1 have no more to say — you will take our own course.” 

With these words Philip turned upon his heel and left the room. 

On entering the ball-room the first object his eyes sought was 
Catherine. He saw wh\i displeasure that she w^as seated between 
Mrs. Courtland and the duchess. The latter was talking to her with 
animation, and Calherine did not look bored, or on the defensive, as 
he would have liked her to have looked. On the contrary, she 


112 


JXTKODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


seemed well amused. Philip was disappointed. lie did not go 
near her all the evening. What would be the use of it? He could 
not talk seriously to her in the interval between a polka and a waltz. 
He held aloof and watched her, but she several times looked round 
the room for him, and once she caught his eye in the crowd. 

Later, as the duchess and her party were about to leave the ball, 
Philip, who happened to be standing in the doorway in close 
proximity to Mrs. Latour and her partner in the waltz:, heard her 
say, 

“ Are you going to Barrencourt? No? Neither am I. If 1 was 
very fast 1 should be asked, perhaps. Bat they tell me, of course 1 
don’t know if it’s true, that the duchess is very jealous of my figure. 
Of course she can’t be exclusive, or she wouldn’t ask Miss John- 
stone. But then every one knows why s/ie is asked.” 

Mrs. Latour was whirled off, and Catherine was brought to an 
anchor in that harbor of refuge, just as the duchess was passing out. 

” 1 shall expect you then on Friday, at five,” he heard her say. 
‘‘ Of course 1 shall send for you to the station.” 

Then Thane leaned forward. ‘‘1 shall come by the same train 
from London, duchess; you asked me, you know, and 1 left it 
open.” 

” 1 thought you refused,” laughed the duchess. ” However, if 
you will put up with a north room we can take you in.” 

” I’ll bring plenty of rugs and furs,” said Thane. Philip heard 
no more. He turned away, muttering an oath under his breath. 

^< ***** * 

” 1 talked for a long time to Mrs. Courtland last night. 1 am al- 
most provoked with myself for being interested in her; it certainly 
proves that my brief Roger-fever is past. I did not feel the least 
jealous of his devotion; only a sincere pity for the foolish little 
woman, who seems to me like some poor moth that must inevitably 
b(! singed unless the light that attracts it be removed. How to re- 
move it? That is the question. 

” She is unhappy, and she is reckless. Should I be so w'ere 1 
married to a man utterly unsuited to me, and were 1 as pretty and 
as much admired as she is? Perhaps so. Mr. Courlland is called 
‘ a good sort of man;’ carelessly confident — that is, neglectful — of 
his wife; absorbed in his business; not the sort of husband 1 should 
like. And this little woman required one whom she feared a little 
—one w'ho made her the object of constant and jealous regard; she 
would have been different then. 

‘‘ 1 said to her, in the course of our conversation, 

“ ‘ If you have any real friendship for Mr. Davenport, you will 
urge his going abroad, at once.’ 

” ‘ Why?’ she returned, almost fiercely. ‘ He is one of my few 
friends. Why should 1 deprive myself of the pleasure of seeing him 
M'henever 1 can?’ 

‘‘ ‘ Becau.se it is bad for him— and, perhaps, for you too. Einplo}'- 
ment may be found for liim abroad; it is the only door to escape 
out of his difficulties. Don’t shut that door, by encouraging him 
to remain on here in idleness. ’ 

“ ‘ I’m sure 1 don’t want him to remain, if he wishes to go/ she 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 113 

said with her little petulant air. * Immediately 1 like any one, 1 
am told 1 oiiglit to drive him away — it’s absurd!’ 

“ She bore my jobation, however, on the whole very well; she 
even thanked me, with something very like a tear in her eye — 
though, the next minute she laughed at the idea of a girl— and an 
utter barbarian, moreover, as 1 am — lecturing her, a married woman 
of eight years’ standing. 1 said—* Never mind: the senses of savage 
tribes are often keener than those of civilized people. They scent 
danger from afar. They can liear and see, where the while man, 
whose organs have been dulled by city-life, remains deaf and blind.’ 

“ After this, the duchess, who had been dancing, came and sat 
beside me. She seemed to tliink 1 had crossed the room to be near 
her; but it was not so, and 1 undeceived her. She did not resent 
my frankness; but was very kind, and really made herself most 
amusing. She is a clever woman : rather hard, rather audacious, I 
should say; but with plenty of brains, plenty of observation, and 
knowledge of politics, the money-market, and the race-course. 1 
should think she never opened a book (except a betting- book); but 
her remarks showed her to be a spirited student of men and women. 

“ She pressed me so much to go to Barrencourt on Friday, that 1 
consented. 1 halt regret it now. 1 am sorry to leave Lady Daven- 
port alone; for everybody goes away either to-day or to-morrow. 
But, after all, 1 believe she prefers solitude: and her troubles are 
not of a nature that can be talked away. And then she has Mr. 
Holroyd, who must be the best friend 1 think any woman in her 
position ever had. It is most extraordinary the change in my opin- 
ion of him. When I think of how 1 regarded him, and how I re- 
garded Roger Davenport, three weeks ago, the revolution in all my 
sentiments makes me feel as if I must have been betwitched then — 
or that 1 am bewitched now^ But no— I will not admit the second 
alternative. The captivation of rare beauty, melodious voice, subtle 
flattery, from under a soft auburn mustache, falling on foolish ears 
— these may be called ‘witchery.’ But my judgment deliberately 
confirms the growing regard 1 feel for this strong, stern man, against 
whom, during the first w'eeks of my stay here, 1 had such a vehe- 
ment repulsion, lie has never sought to attract me; on the con- 
trary, he has held aloof; an altitude which I resented for some time. 
1 do so no longer; 1 honor him for it; it is 1 who sought him out, 
in spite of my aversion, because he was the only person wdio could 
help me in that afiair of Roger Davenport’s. And now, 1 feel more 
pleased by a few rare words, showing that he takes some interest in 
me— even it it be in condemnation— than 1 do by the compliments 
of a Mountjoy or a Thane. 

“ Why is this? When 1 look back a few days, and see how the 
scales fell from my eyes, as it were, with respect to R. D., I ask 
myself whether 1 am not an imposition — a poor sentimental creat- 
ure, the victim of delusions, instead of the sensible matter-of-fact 
young woman 1 am credited with being. 1 will have no more 
delusions; but, as regards Mr. llolroyd’s character — its strength and 
courage and fearless candor— 1 can not be deceived. Weakness is 
the one unpardonable crime in a man; and Roger, 1 see now, is 
miserably weak. 1 should have cared little for his evil-doing, had 
he shown any energy to try and struggle out of the mire into which 


114 


li^TRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


he has fallen. But his ignoble readiness to be heliied out without 
making an effort for himself completely disenchanted me. How 
different to this other man’s career! Who, having committed plenty 
of follies in his early manhood, as 1 am told, resolved to redeem his 
past, and, being almost ruined, supported his mother and himself 
by hard work, and has now achieved a comfortable independence. 
The woman (o whom such a man as this shall devote his life may 
not be happy— toi that depends upon a variety of incalculable causes 
—but at least she will always feel proud of having inspired such 
attachment. 

“ But that woman will never be one who is largely endowed. I 
feel confident that his pride would rise in revolt against it.” 


CHAPTER XXL 

Many of the guests departed the following day, Mrs. Hare among 
the rest. 

‘‘ So you are going to Barrencourt after all?” she said as she 
parted from Catherine. ” Perhaps you are wise. After a few days 
there, you will be able to tell whether you care to buy strawberry- 
leaves at such a price. 1 would not myself — but then 1 am called 
romantic. And then you have everything else this world can give, 
besides some things it can’t. When 1 saw you revolving round the 
room with that young man last night, do you know what 1 did? 1 
scratched with a pencil on the back of my fan this distich: — 

“ To one who feels hearts are not to he bought, 

Life without Love would be a Barren-court.” 

Miserable as they are, 1 advise you to bear those two lines in mind. 
Good-by. 1 hope we shall soon meet in London.” 

Mrs. Latour and Thane also left Davenport that day; but one or 
two girls and some ol the 3 'ounger men remained, and with them 
Roger. They were all to go up to London together the following 
morning; Roger, as he informed his mother, “ to see after his 
affairs.” She had a long conversation with him, but could obtain 
no definite information as to his plans. He should probably go 
abroad soon — it would depend. He might even start before the 
family moved up to London, where Sir iSorman had taken a house 
from the beginning of the Parliamentary Session, now only a fort- 
night distant. 

No one knew where he went that afternoon. He disappeared after 
luncheon, and neither the tennis-players, nor those who walked, en- 
joyed the benefit of his society. Among the latter were Catherine 
and Lady Davenport, with Malcolm and Holroyd. 

It was a perfectly still mild winter’s day— such a day as is almost 
unknown out of England. Across the Channel there wmuld be a 
crispness in the air, which is absent on such days with us. Further 
south there would be golden light and cold blue shadow; here there 
is neither strong ligut nor shadow'. A tender mist reigns over all, 
the smoke from the cottages yonder has hardly strength to curl up- 
ward through the soft damp air, the dead leaves do not rustle, but 
lie flat and moist upon the path. 


IKTllODtJCEl) TO SOCIETY. 115 

They took their way through a 3 ’’oung plantation, up to a high-ly- 
ing portion ot the park, Lady Davenport and Catherine leading the 
way. Walking parties are otten tantalizing, the wrong couples tall- 
ing together, by accident at first, and never finding the opportunity 
to “ sort ” themselves, perhaps, until it be too late. It was so on this 
occasion. The fates willed it that Philip, who was most anxious to 
tell Catherine, as he had promised to do, the result of his interview 
with Roger on the previous night (of which, however, she was una- 
ware), was seized upon in the hall, as they were starting, by an in- 
telligent girl desirous of putting a question in classical history to 
the tutor, who would, she felt sure, be kind enough to answer it. 
He wished her — further, as he saw Catherine walk on ahea^ with 
Lady Davenport, and found himself compelled to be this young 
lady's companion for the next half hour or more. 

Lady Davenport, ivho was accustomed to walk a great deal, had 
scarcely been out of the house lor two days. She was more pale and 
worn than ever this afternoon; and Catherine, looking into her face, 
felt a desire to say something which should send a ray of hope into 
the darkened chambers of the mother’s heart. 

How glad you must be that all the gaj^ely is over, and that the 
house will be quiet again to-morrow!” she began. ‘‘ Even 1 am go- 
ing to leave you at peace for a few days. ” 

” I shall not be sorry to be quiet.” 

” ]\Ir. I'avenport is going away to morrow also, is he not?” 

” Yes. He goes up to London.” 

” And he thinks ot going abroad shortly?” 

” I— 1 believe so. He has no settled plan, 1 think.” 

‘‘Would you not like him to have a settled plan? Would you 
not like him to have some employment abroad?” 

‘‘ Ah! 1 should indeed— but 1 am afraid that is hopeless.” 

‘‘ Do 3 ^ou think he would go to Melbourne, and look after some 
affairs of mine out there? 1 would constitute him my agent for a 
time. He would not have a great deal to do, and my father’s suc- 
cessor in business, ]\lr. Grogan, would put him in the way of doing 
what has to be done.” 

Lad}' Davenport’s face had grown, if possible, a shade paler; and 
then a faint color rose to her cheek, as she said, quicKly: 

‘‘ My son is not a good business man, unfortunately. 1 feel deeply 
your kindness. You w'ouldwm^’d a post in order to help him; but he 
is quite unfit for any — any position ot that kind — any position of 
responsibility; poor boy! 1 should dread it for him.” 

There was an expression of such acute anguish on her face, as she 
said these words, that Catherine felt aw'ed. She remembered Phil- 
ip’s counsel, and regretted now that she had spoken. 

A minute or two later. Lady Davenport resumed, with more of 
her usual restraint: 

‘‘You have seen enough ot my son now, I think, Miss Johnstone, 
to know that he has not 3 'et learned the necessity of sacrificing his 
inclinations, whatever they may be, to any sense of obligation. God 
grant that he may learn to do so in the course ot years! At present. 
Lean not desire that he should undertake duties that are connected 
with business— m any w'ay. Do not propose it to him. 1 hope he 
may be persuaded to enter some foreign service— or we might per- 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


116 

haps get him a commission in a West Indian regiment, if he would 
take it.” 

“ Mr. Holro 3 ^d was in a foreign service, was he not>” said Cath- 
erine, glad of an opportunity to divert the conversation into another 
channel; ” and 1 believe he liked it very much.” 

“Yes, he was in an Austrian cavalry regiment for some years, 
and did very well, as he was sure to do, whatever career he had 
adopted. ” 

” Y'ou have a very high opinion ot him, 1 believe?” 

‘‘1 have, indeed; and not without reason. He is reserved, and 
difficult to know; has too much pride, and is too careless of the good 
opinion of people in "cneial, to be popular. But you will find hinr 
worth cultivating. Miss Johnstone. Under that rather repelling 
manner is a very rare nature — so absolutely noble, and free from 
smallness of anj’^ kind.” 

‘‘ 1 am suie of it.” 

‘‘ Indeed? 1 fancied, as you so seldom speak, that you disliked 
him; and, to say the truth, 1 could not wonder at it, tor he takes so 
little pains to be agreeable. It is his only fault— but 1 admit that it 
is a great one.” 

” 1 suspect,” said Catherine, smiling, ” it is a fault that the few 
to whom such culprits do condescend to talk find it easy to for- 
give.” 

“No,” observed the just Lady Davenport, desirous to exhibit no 
undue leniency to her friend, ” it is a great fault; it belongs partly 
to a misplaced piide, partly to indilTerence. No one — especially a 
man who possesses such conversational power — has a right to ab- 
stract himself in general society. When we are alone here, he will 
talk the whole evening lon<».” 

‘‘ 1 am sorry now 1 am going to Barrencourt on Friday. How- 
ever, when 1 return, 1 hope to hear some of this biilliant conversa- 
tion,” laughed Catherine. 

Lady Davenport said nothing. She was thinking of Roger’s in- 
sinuation as to Holroyd, which she knew to be not only baseless, but 
diametrically opposed to his character, as well as to his bearing to- 
ward Catherine. She wished that he would open out more to the 
young heiress, in whom she felt now a reall}’' strong interest, and to 
wheyn a wise man’s counsel might be so valuable. But she knew so 
well wh}’- he hati shrunk from any approach to intimacy with the 
girl; and the barrier would, she feared, prove impassable. 

When they had reached the brow of the upland, from which the 
far taint line of the sea was distinguishable on the horizon in clear 
weather, but only to the eye ot faith on a daj^ like this. Lad}’’ Daven- 
port halted, and allowed the rest of the party to come up with 
them. It was a pretty enough view in its way; the soft indefinite 
lines lost in each other; the gray-green fields beyond the belt of 
brown woods, with here a farmstead, liere a winding reach ot river, 
that reflected the primrose-colored sky ot the pale winter sunset. 
There was no salient teature, no strong contrast, or ‘‘dominant 
chords of tone,” as Malcolm said. He called it ” a prelude in a 
minor key ;” whereat the intelligent young woman smiled, and asked*, 
for information, what it was a prelude to. 

“ I he night is coming on— the sea is in the distance— the spring is 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


in 

at hand — don’t you understand? It is a landscape of expectancy’ 
Nothing complete, or mature. The darkness will swallow it all, and 
then the morning will burst with a triumphal hymn, and the spring 
will awaken and clothe these dead woods with green, and the sun 
will sparkle on the distant sea— all that is the accomplished sym- 
pbony. That is why I called this the prelude.” 

The intelligent young woman looked a little dazed. Philip mean- 
time had approached Catherine; and Lady Davenport, pleased to 
see so unusual an advance on his part (as it appeared to her), left 
them together, and joined some other member ot the party. As soon 
as she was out of hearing, 

” Have you spoken to Mr. Davenport?” asked Catherine. 

”1 did so last night. He does not deny the actual but he 
tries to explain it away. He wishes to make it appear that some 
arrangement with the collateral heirs was contemplated, by which 
these heirlooms might be sold. He drags another name into all this, 
which 1 shall not repeat to you; but the fact remains, which he does 
not dispute, that he took the jewels from his mother’s keeping, with- 
out her knowledge—* to have them valued,’ as he says.” 

** But— but, it it is only that, he can prove it? He can prevent 
this horrid Jew from circulating this vile story?” 

” He adduces no proof as to the truth of hk version of it, and it is 
clear that he is going to do nothing as regards the Jew. He kicked 
him down-stairs, it seems, and he says this letter was written in the 
man’s rage. He feels sure that Barton will not follow it up by any 
others. 1 have stated as fully as 1 can his explanation He talked 
about its being ‘ an intricate affair,’ and that it was not his secret;’ 
and he brought in, as 1 have said, the name of another person; and 
in this manner he stopped my mouth. 1 could ask no more. It is 
not satisfactory to me; it is not consistent with innocence, in my 
opinion— this shrinking from investigation, and from challenging 
the truth of such a damaging charge. Do you think it is?” 

The girl’s frank face was clouded : ‘ ‘ 1 am afraid not. 1 can not bear 
to think it. 1 can’t fancy any man behaving so. Poor Lady Daven- 
port! Oh! how I feel for her! How I feel for any woman who loves 
him! Surely life can have no trial so bitter as this— to find that what 
one loved is despicable? 1 hope— oh! Ido she won’t know it! 
Poor Lady Davenport.” 

*• Between ourselves, 1 think she already does. It would account 
for her looking so very ill ever since last IMonday night. She has 
borne up against everything hitherto, but this has fairly crushed 
her.” 

** 1 can hardly realize it now’’. Perhaps, after all, it is not as bad 
as it appears, it seems incredible. It sounds like a story in a 
‘penny dreadful.’ What is to become of him— wretched 3 ’’oung 
man!” 

” 1 am sure 1 don’t know. You may pay a man’s debts and set 
him on his legs, but if he can’t stand upright, if he falls into the 
mire at every step, what are you to do? Upon my word, 1 believe 
the kindest thing would be to lock him up as a lunatic. He could 
do no harm to himself or any one else in a makon de sante, where 
he was kindly treated. You see now that it would not be justifiable 
to recommend him to Mr. Grogan for any position of trust.” 


118 INTBODUCED TO SOCIETY. 

“ No. 1 thought over it since 1 spoke to you the other day, and 
1 had resolved to try and find emplo 3 nTient tor him myself which 
should involve no risk to any one else. 1 have house property in 
Melbourne which my lawyers here seem to think is mismanaged. 
Mr. Grogan has too much to do to look after it, and it struck me 
that if Mr. Davenport would consent to go out tor me I might send 
him. But 1 broached the subject to Lady Davenpoit just now, and 
she begged me not to name it to him. It seemed to distress her; and 
no wonder! if your surmise be right. At any rate, all idea of this 
must be at an end now.” 

“ Ay, it must, indeed. What you tell me confirms my impression 
— Lady Davenport would gratefully have entertained this idea of 
yours a few days since. Now 1 feel sure nothing would induce her 
to encourage it. I am glad he goes to-morrow. His presence here 
can be no comfort to her since this discovery.” 

“ And Sit Norman — do you think he knows? How will he 
feel?” 

” 1 can t say,” was Holroyd’s laconic reply. 

There was a pause. Then Catherine said, 

“ 1 am going away on Friday.” 

“ 1 know it— and I am sorry. If you were my sister you should 
not go to Barrencourt. ” 

” Why not? 1 believe 1 ought to feel very much flattered at be- 
ing invited.” 

“It is not my idea of flattery; however, let that pass. This is 
‘ why not ’ : Because, it 1 could help it, my sister should never stay 
in a house where the moral and intellectual standard was low — no 
matter whether it were a duke’s ot parvenu's. No one can be the 
better for much intercourse with a woman like the Duchess of 
Deal.” 

” It is all new to me; I dare say 1 sha’n't be amused, but it is a 
fresh experience. And you don’t really fancy that 1 shall be de- 
moralized by being under the roof of a fast duchess for a few 
days?” 

” What good can such ‘ fresh experience ’ do you? Knowledge 
of this kind comes soon enough, and the longer a woman can keep 
away from it the better. The mind gets very quickly accustomed 
to what it sees round it. Mrs. Courtland startled j^ou at first, 1 
think? You have reached the stage of pitying her, of making allow- 
ances. Habit has easy stepping-stones over almost any stream, and 
one can’t say where it may land one.” 

“ 1 don’t see why pitying or making allowances should necessarily 
land one upon toleration of what one knows to be wrong. 1 am not 
a child. 1 am two-and twenty, Mr. Holroyd. If 1 have a grain of 
sense, 1 am of an age to distinguish good from evil. 1 have a curi- 
osity to see as much as i can of this new' world, to w’hich 1 am a 
stranger. Is it unTiatural? Is it wrong? Surely there are plenty 
of women much better than 1 am w'ho belong to that world, and are 
uucorrupted?” 

‘‘ Certainly there are. But w'hen you voluntarily go out of your 
ow'n sphere, let it be for the sake of w'hat is elevated — in some higher 
sense than that of fashion. In coming to this house you were fort- 
unate in making a friend of such a woman as Lady Davenport. But 


IKTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 119 

there are not man}’^ like her to be found anywhere; and the intimacies 
you have formed outside this house, 1 should disapprove — if you 
were my sister.” 

” You are very stern, but 1 don’t mind it as regards myself. Only 
the poor little w'oman you are too severe upon—” 

“ I am not severe on any one. My sist(;r should not choose Mrs. 
Courtland as her friend — that is all. 

” But you would not prevent your sister from holding out a hand 
to try and help her?” 

” What help can a girl give to a woman like that?” he asked 
almost angrily. Then he added in a calmer tone, ”1 am a man 
who must either say pretty plainly what is in my mind, or else hold 
my peace. I can be silent, as you know ; and it mj'^ plain-speaking 
displeases you, tell me so, and 1 will oflend no more.” 

” You may speak as plainly as you like. Few people have ever 
taken enough interest in me to do so, and 1 feel so grateful for it, 
that 1 could never be oftended. On the other hand 1 am obstinate, 
sometimes. You must forgive me, if 1 do not always take your ad- 
vice.” 

‘‘ What right have 1 to expect that you should? You have come 
to me once or twice for help, you have asked my opinion as a man, 
which is my excuse for speaking to you now as 1 have done. 1 hope 
you will never have reason to regret or to withdraw the confidence 
you have placed in me.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

The result of the foregoing conversation was curious. It induced 
Catherine to write and excuse herself to the duchess from paying 
her promised visit to Barrencourt. But on the other hand, perhaps 
in consequence of yielding to Holroyd on I his point, she was more 
resolute than ever not to give up Mrs. Courtland. Slie proved sat- 
isfactorily to her own mind that it would be disloyal to do so. The 
poor foolish woman had sought her, and clung to her friendship, as 
it appeared to Catherine; she would not desert her, even tliough 
Philip Holroyd had expressed himself so strongly against the inti- 
macy. 

He alone was aware— for she did not al tempt to conceal it from 
him — of the reason why she gave up her visit to Barrencourt. To 
Lady Davenport she only said that upon reflection she thought she 
should not enjoy it, without a single person in the house whom she 
knew well; and Lady Davenport evidently approved her decision. 
Sir Norman, who was cognizant of all Charley Thane’s movements 
and motives, laughed gayly at the picture of the gallant guards- 
man’s discomfiture, when he should discover that heliad braved the 
terrors of the ” north-west passage ” for nothing. 

Every one was gone: the house was silent, save for the sound of 
IMalcolm’s piano, which was being submitted to the torture of the 
thumb screw, as it seemed to Ckherine, for longer than usual to- 
day. And in relation to this practicing of his, something was casu- 
ally dropped by Lady Davenport, in conversation that afternoon, 
which opened out a number of eventualities to her listener’s mind. 

“Yes,” she observed, in reply to something Catherine had said, 


120 


INTHODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


“ Malcolm has more inclination to study music seriously than any- 
thing else. 1 hope his father will consent to his going to Germany 
this year, which is what the boy wants. It he will not work for a 
profession anything is better than his doing nothing,” she added 
with a sigh. 

” 1 thought he was reading to enter one of the universities?” 

” He is idle. Mr. Holroyd has done more than any one else with 
him, but he has no ambition himself in any other than an artistic 
career. Sir Norman says, and justly, that it is one that demands ex- 
ceptional talent tor distinction; whereas in diplomacy he might do 
well enough without shining abilities. But the diplomatic career is 
expensive, and Malcolm has no taste for it. Under these circum- 
stances, 1 think the best thing for him is to go to Leipzig for a 3 "ear. 
AV'e shall then see what he can do.” 

” Have you consulted Mr. Holroyd? Is he of your opinion?” 

“Yes. He says he will never make a classical scholar; and as his 
bent is so very decided, it is better to let him follow it, for a time at 
all events. In a German family he will learn the language, which 
will be useful; and he will not be acquiring extravagant habits, as 
he might at Oxford. Lady Retford is violently opposed to it; she 
would like him to do absolutely nothing, 1 believe; but though he 
is to be her heir, 1 cannot think that her opinion ought to influence 
our decision. Idleness is the worst of all curses.” 

“ Mr. Holroyd then will, of course, no longer remain with your 
son?” 

“Oh, no. He only consented to come here for a time at my 
earnest desire. It is very kind of him to have remained so long. 
There are plenty of employments open to him. He w\as offered a 
private secretaryship to a man in oflice the other day, but he declined 
it, because he would not leave us till Malcolm’s future was decided. 
1 only learned it by accident, some time afterivard.” 

Catherine' was startled to find how blank the prospect of Daven- 
port without this austere man now seeemd to her. She had not 
much conversation alone with him that day, but in the evening be 
tiilked a great deal upon various subjects, when the reduced circle 
was gathered round the fire, and Sir Norman and his sister were 
both dozing. He related, at Malcolm’s request, a number of weird 
German tales, of which he seemed to have an inexhaustible store, 
until Catherine begged him to allow them at least an hour or two’s 
undisturbed rest that night. After this he gave a graphic account of 
some bear hunts in Russia, where he had been with the Austrian 
Princes; and then he spoke of the country life they had led in Hun- 
gary and Bohemia. Lady Davenport listened, and occasionally asked 
a question; her thoughts were diverted for the time being from the 
painful channel in which they constantly flowed. Was it to this 
end solely that he tried to interest his hearers that evening? Cathe- 
rine asked herself this question more than once. At last she said, 

“ 1 should not have thought you would have liked court life, Mr. 
Holroyd.” 

“ 1 was very fond of the princes, otherwise it would have been 
intolerable. Royalty has sometimes the happy gift of attaching its 
servants strongly; and, when this is the case, the irksomeness and 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 121 

restraint of court life are compensated for; under no other circum- 
stances would it be hearable, 1 think,” 

” No life would be bearable to you where you did not know that 
you were of use,” said Lady Davenport; ‘‘and 1 believe,” she 
added with a smile, ” you would put up with any amount of irk- 
someness and restraint if jmu felt that you were so,” 

The followinw day Oatherire rode over to Brookvrood, and found 
i\lrs. Courtland lookin^^ very ill. She had caught cold at the ball, 
and had a troublesome cough, evidently accompanied by a good 
deal of fever. Moreover, perhaps owing purely lo physical causes, 
she was in such a state of depression, alternating with nervous irri- 
tability, that Catherine f^-really uneasy about her. She talked 
wildly about no one caring what became of her— railed at her owui 
sex, and at the world at large— said her life w^as of no value, and that 
she w^as reckless how soon it ended — and then she cried violently. 
Catherine sat and talked to her for some time. She felt that in this 
hysterical condition there was no saying wdiat Mrs. Courtland might 
not be led to do. She ought not to be left, as she was, alone; her 
liusband away, and no wise friend at hand. She was not insensible 
to the voice of kindness as long as the speaker was present; she 
listened to Catherine, she even thanked her for her counsel, but the 
girl knew that it would make no lasting impression. Should she 
offer to come and slay at Brook wood for a few days? Alw^ays more 
impulsive than prudent, the idea no sooner suggested itself to her 
mind than she acted upon it, and spoke. Mrs. Courtland hesitated; 
then she colored, and tell upon Catherine’s neck and declared she 
was her good angel. It w^as arranged that Catherine and her maid 
should drive over to Brookwood the next day. 

When Catherine made this known on her return to Lady Daven- 
port, that lady looked grave. 

‘‘ 1 would far rather, of the two, you had gone to Barrencourt, my 
dear Miss Johnstone, You know my opinion of Mrs. Courtland. 
She is not an advantageous friend for you.” 

‘‘lam sorry to do anything you disapprove, Lady Davenport, but 
1 dare say jmu will think me crnzy when 1 say that 1 am going to 
Brookwood, because 1 think it a duty to do so. What has my duty 
to do with Mrs. Courtland? Well, somehow or other, 1 appear to 
have an influence over this poor foolish woman. She listens to me. 
She is ill and lonely— perhaps owing to her own fault; no matter— 
when one sees any way of helping a fellow-creature, surely one 
ought not to hesitate? It may be a delusion of mine, but 1 fancy 1 
can be of some use at Brookwood. 1 am sure 1 could he of none at 
Barrencourt.” 

Lady Davenport said no more. She had long seen that Catherine 
was one of those who in all-important decisions would admit no 
arbiter of conduct but their ow?i sense of what was right, as applied 
to their own actions. The code of expediency, the generalities of 
wisdom in dealings with the world, were useful finger-posts which 
she was by no means inclined to disregard in the broad common 
paths of life. But the narrow ways, wdiich to some might seem 
perilous, she would unhesitatingly follow, if she thought she saw be- 
tween the brambles and interlacing boughs that they led to some 
sanctuary of truth. 


IKTRODUCED TO SOCII3TY, 


m 

Philip Holroyd was alone in the library before dinner when Cath- 
erine entered. She knew he was always the first to be dressed, and 
she hurried down that she might say a few words to him before the 
family assembled. He stood near the high chimney-piece, and the 
bright light of the fire fell upon her as she advanced toward him. 
She had stuck some white chrysanthemums in her hair; and her 
dress was black. It was thus he loved to remember her afterward; 
not in the bravery ot ball attire, but without ornament, without 
other color than that belonging to her rich-toned skin. He had 
never seen her so simply dressed before: and perhaps until then he 
had never thought her positively handsome. 

She began at once: 

“ 1 am going to Biookwood to-morrow, Mr. Holroyd, to stay 
a few days. 1 wanted to tell you this myself, because *1 shouldn’t 
liRe you to think that 1 disregarded your advice without areason ; and 
I Jiave a reason, which seems tome more than sufiicient to justify my 
following my own course. You mustn’t be angry. 1 told you you 
would find me obstinate sometimes.” 

” Why should 1 be angryl 1 volunteered an opinion : you did not 
ask for it: and you certainly are not bound to regard it.” 

” Everj one must accept the responsibility of his own actions — 
don’t you think so? Even if 1 were your sister, you could not take 
that burden on yourself, had she a conscience whose voice spoke 
out distinctly. All 5'ou said to me the other day was true and wise, 
1 know, and 1 also know that 1 am ignorant of the world’s waj's, 
and too apt to be guided by impulse and curiosity. But, never- 
theless, when that inner voice speaks 1 must listen to it, though 
Lady Davenport and you and ev^erybody else should declare that 1 
am a self-willed, foolish j'oung woman.” 

“ In the Church ot Rome they talk of ‘ directing the conscience,’ 
which 1 think accurately describes what every one should be care- 
ful to do tor himself. The instinct of right in one man leaning to 
abundant mercy may render him weak. Those, like myself, on tlie 
other hand, whose nature inclines them to administer and to demand 
an even-handed justice, too often become stern. 1 have not escaped 
that danger, you think? No. What you call ‘ the inner voice ’ in 
all ot us needs training and watching— in short, as the Catholics 
say, ‘ directing. ’ ” 

” I understand: my impulsive inclinations to do what seems to 
me right are not to be mistaken for laws, and ought not to be trusted 
implicitly? Perhaps so; but 1 can’t regard any one else’s laws as 
a bit less fallible; and, until 1 succeed in modifying my own, 1 can 
only follow the old, imperfect direction.” 

” You have good brains,” said Philip, after a moment’s pause, 
with one of his rare smiles; ‘‘ and brains are a capital corrective to 
a too credulous generosity. I am not afraid of your being harmed 
in the way many girls might be by such an intimacy as this; and, 
as to any injury it may do you in the eyes of the world, 3’^ou have 
counted the cost, 1 suppose, and are indifferent to that.” 

” 1 am not indifferent to it: when Lady Retford told me just now 
that 1 should ruin all my prospects in life by^ being known as the 
friend of Mrs. Courtland, 1 felt annoyed; but, of course, it did not 
alter my determination. How could it?” 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


123 


“ When are you coming back?” he asked suddenly, 

” That depends. 1 can’t say exaclly. It 1 think 1 am of use 
there, 1 may slay till just before we are to move up to London.” 

‘‘ And soon after that, possibly, my occupation lieie will be gone, 
1 have been talking to Sir Norman about IMalcolm to-day. 1 think 
he will consent to send him to Germany in March.” 

” When shall you go? 1 hope you are not going to leave Lon- 
don?” 

“ No, 1 shall probably find something to do there — write for the 
press, if no other employment turns up.” 

** You will be very much missed in this house,” said Catherine, 
in a low voice. And then Sir Norman entered, and dinner was soon 
afterward announced. Catherine and Philip were not again 
together alone Detoie she left for Biook\7ood, the following day. 


CHAPTER XXlll. 

Catherine Johnstone was naturally fond of children ; but even 
she was obliged to confess to herself that Mrs. Courtland’s three little 
girls were very uninteresting. They were of the respective ages of 
six, five, and tliree; and were not ill- looking; but they were dull, 
spiritless creatures, with fat, soap-smelling cheeks and heavy e 3 'es; 
lacking all the unexpectedness of childhood, silent and well- 
behaved. They wore beautiful clothes, and were waited on by two 
nurses, and a nursery governes's, who appeared with them in tl i 
dining-room once a day at luncheon. They were seen at no oilier 
times, except it was by chance in the grounds, walkiiig with due 
decorum, under surveillance. No joyous shouts, no toy or picture- 
book, forgotten on the floor of mamma’s boudoir, betrayed the 
secret of those young lives to the chance visitor. Catherine invaded 
their sancturary soon after her arrival, and tried to make friends 
with them. But shyness or apathy rendered this dfficult. All the 
young buds, that needed fostering to expand, seemed frost-bitten. 
{She left the nursery, disheartened. 

A change had come over Mrs. Courtland since the previous day: 
she still coughed a great deal, and looked very ill; but she was no 
longer hysterical; indeed, ihe manner and substance of her delivery 
betokened that she had resolved to impose some restraint upon her- 
self. What she said was of the most superficial kind, and hardly 
touched anything beyond the current gossip of the day. She seemed 
cautiously to avoid any ground that could not be tripped lightly 
over. 

Catherine asked herself once or twice during the evening whether 
she had not, after all, made a mistake in coming here. Between this 
flighty, flippant little lady and herself there really seemed no link 
solid enough to stand the strain of close confidential intercourse. 
Wild as her talk had been on the previous day, it had at least indi- 
cated the struggle and suitering of an ill-disciplined mind. But 
now there seemed no mind at all for anything beyond the last fashion 
of Worth’s, and the chronicle of gay doings in the ‘‘ Morning Post,” 
among people of whom Catherine knew nothing. 

Then Catherine tried the expedient ot talking about herself, and 


124 


IlsTTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


of her happy childhood before her mother’s death; how they had 
lived in the country some distance from Melbourne, and how her 
mother had first taught her to love books, and had opened her eyes 
to the manitold beauties of creation. Slie described all her pet 
animals, and her many diversions in the country in those early 
days, and then she said; 

“As long as life shall last, 1 have (he memory of that sweet, 
wholesome lime to look back to. 1 have had. but few troubles at 
present; my mother died when I was but a child, and since I grew 
up, my dear father’s death is the only heavy sorrow 1 have had. Of 
course, 1 must have troubles, sooner or later, like all the rest of the 
world, but nothing can rob me of my happy childhood— it will 
always refresh me to look back to it if 1 am heavy at heart.” 

“ Hasn’t some poet said something about there being no greater 
misery than looking back to past happiness? 1 am sure 1 have read 
it somewhere,” said Mrs. Courlland, with an uneasy laugh; “ ])ut 1 
never remember anything — only the idea struck me as true.” 

“ It was not of the simple joys of childhood, into which no pas- 
sion enters, that Dante wrote that. Nothing that parents can give 
their children in after-life compensates for the want of love and in- 
terest and sunshine at the outset of the journey.” 

“Ah! 1 suppose so. My own childhood was dreary enough, 
Heaven knows! 1 was alone, you know, with a horrid old woman, 
my grandmother, whom 1 hated, until 1 was sent to school, and no 
one took the slightest trouble about me until 1 was sixteen, and sud- 
denly turned out to be an heiress. 1 was petted and pampered 
enough then. Does it never make you cynical, my dear, to find the 
importance money gives one? Is there anybody, do you think, 
would care for one if one was poor?” 

“ 1 hope so; but probably the number is smaller than we are led 
to believe. To return to what we were talking of, however. Does 
.not the loDeliness of ^^our own childhood make 5 'ou anxious that 
your children should have one as different as possible to look back 
upon? Does it never strike you that if you were more with them, 
made their young lives and yours more one, you would open a new 
world of interest to them, and to yourself too?” 

“ Oh, as to that, dear, 1 have told you before that unfortunately 
I’m not fond of children. I haven’t the instinct. It’s horrid to say 
so, 1 suppose, but it’s true. I'he poor little things have everything 
in the world they can w^ant, and there are thr’ee of them, so they 
can’t be lonely, you see. And what on earth should I do with them 
here?” 

“ Well,” replied Catherine, with that bluntness which often char- 
acterized her utterances, and wdiich the habits of “ society ” had not 
yet removed, “you might learn to know them— which you can 
hardly be said to do— and they might learn to love you, which now 
it is impossible they can. You complain that your life is empty, 
that you are left so much alone. And yet you willfully neglect not 
only a duty, but an element of lasting happiness! By and by you 
will be sorry ior this, believe me.” 

“Oh! by and by! 1 never look forfv^ard to by and by. 1 live 
au Jour U Jour, It’s as much as 1 can do. You are too honest, 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 125 

dear, to pretend to think that I could really be of any use to the 
children.” 

” And why not? Were children ever given to a woman— the 
most ignorant, the most abject — who could not by watchfulness and 
tenderness be of use to them? Ah! if you were ruined to-morrow, 
if you bad to work tor your own bread and theirs, to wash them and 
feed them, and teach them yourself, instead of leaving it all to 
others, it might be better tor them, perhaps, and for you too!” 

She opened her pretty eyes wide. ‘‘ Why, my dear, they will 
have all this w’orld can give them — first-rate masters and gov- 
ernesses, and all that— and vhat couhi they learn from me? I’m 
awfully ignorant, and very foolish. I’m afraid 1 should do them 
more harm than good if they were with me. And if — ” here she 
hesitated a moment — ” if 1 were to leave them to-morrow, or to die, 
1 often think it would be a good thing for them. They wouldn’t 
miss me, you know, and by and by— well! b}*^ and by, perhaps, they 
would be glad—” 

‘‘ Ilow can you talk so!” cried- Catherine. “As if all the best 
masters in England could make up for the loss of a mother, if she 
does her duty! Oh! when I think of the childless women who 
would cut off their right hands to possess these blessings, and 1 see 
you so indifferent to them, it makes me mad! But you are ill to- 
night, and talking makes you cough. You must go to bed. To- 
morrow I liope that you will listen to my wise saws, and act upon 
them.” 

The next morning there was a cold east wind, but the sun shone 
brightly into the breakfast-room where Catherine and Mrs. Couit- 
land met. The little lady’s eyes looked more brilliant than ever, 
and the flush on her cheeks deceived Catherine a moment into the 
belief that her hostess w^as almost herself again. She was restless, 
and coughed much, however, which did not prevent her declaring 
she would drive her ponies to the meet, some miles distant. Cath- 
erine had decided not to hunt from Brookwood, and she now did 
her best to dissuade Mrs. Courtland from going out on so cold a 
day. She believed that she had carried her point when the post 
arrived. It brought one letter for Catherine and one for Mrs. Court- 
laud. Catherine’s was not a pleasant communication, and the sub- 
ject of it engrossed her thoughts, until she was aroused by Mrs. 
Courtland’s starting up from the table and exclaiming, in a trem- 
ulous voice, ” I am going to put on my things. 1 can’t stay in the 
house. The ponies will be lound in a quarter of an hour. Are you 
coming?” 

“ You are not mad enough to drive out in this bitter east w'ind, 
coughing as you do? 1 thought just now you were going to be 
reasonable and listen to me.” 

” I’ve changed my mind, dear,” she said, and her voice still 
shook. ‘‘ If you knew — 1 must have air— 1 am choking, and 1 want 
something to distract my thoughts. 1 can’t sit at borne any longer, 
and think— think— Oh! if you only knew, my dear, it is much 
better 1 should go out.” 

She turned and left the room abruptly, and, as she did so, an en- 
velope dropped from the bundle of letters she held. The change in 
her voice and manner startled Catherine, fehe would gladly have 


126 


IKTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


remained at home, tor the letter she had received demanded lone; 
and anxious deliberation. But she could not refuse to accompany 
Mrs. Oourtland; the more so as she might persuade her to return 
home sooner than she otherwise might do. She picked up the fallen 
envelope when she left the room, two or three minutes later; and, 
in doing so, recognized the handwriting. It was Koger Daven- 
port’s. 

The drive, though its consequences were serious, was uneventful. 
The wind was piercing, and Catherine had so much to occupy her 
thoughts, that she leaned back in her fui-s and did not attempt to 
talk. Mrs. Courtland too, was silent, until they reached the meet, 
where the men gathered round her, and she laughed and chattered 
away, and nodded defiantly to the few' ladies who were there, in 
return for their distant salutations. 

“ Pray let us go home now. You have never ceased coughing; 
and even 1 feel it very cold,” said Catherine. 

Then the ponies’ heads were turned round, their mistress touched 
them with her whip, and three quarters of an hour later they drew 
up under the portico of Brookwood. 

Catherine went to her own room, and seating herself before the 
fire, drew out the letter she had received that morning and reread 
it carefully. It was from Mr. Braggett, her man of business in 
London, and was marked ” Immediate.” It had reached Daven- 
port by the second post, shortly after Catherine’s departure Ihe pre- 
vious day, and had been forwarded at once. The contents of the 
letter were to the effect that the writer was becoming seriously 
alarmed as to the administration of his client’s landed property iu 
Australia, from which there appeared to be no receipts forthcom- 
ing. Clearly there was gross mismanagement, if not something 
worse. The writer had warned Miss Johnstone some weeks since 
that her house property in Melbourne required to be looked into, that 
it did not appear to be returning more than a quarter of the income it 
had formerly yielded. It seemed now that the evil was wider 
spread and more complicated than the writer had supposed. Mr. 
Grogan’s explanations were not satisfactory'^; and, without wishing 
to impugn any one’s motives, the writer considered that a strict 
investigation into the management of the estate should take place at 
once. How and by whom this should be done, IMiss Johnstone 
herself must decide; or, if she would depute any gentleman in 
whose judgment she had confidence, to call upon the writer at an 
appointed h^our, he should be glad to confer with her friend upon 
the subject. 

There was no post to London, being Saturday, and Catherine felt 
that she had ample time to deliberate what course she should pur- 
sue. As to the suspicion insinuated against ]\Ir. Grogan, she would 
not entertain it for a moment. At the same time, for his sake as 
well as for her own, she felt that a thorough examination of the 
affairs of which he had the management was necevssary. At the end 
of halt an hour, she seized a pen and wrote the following note: — 

‘‘ Dear Lady DA^^3NPORT, — Will you desire the phaeton to come 
here after church to-morrow. 1 shall drive over to you tor an hour. 
1 want to consult you upon a matter of some importance to me, 


IKTROBUOED TO SOCIETY. 


127 

and, with your approval, to ask Mr. llolroyd for his help. If you 
think well, perhaps you will say to him that 1 am coming, and hope 
to see him. 

“ Most sincerely and gratefully yours, 

“Catherine Johnstone.” 

Lady Davenport was certainly a little surprised when she read that 
last line. She had no idea that the young lady’s relations with the 
tutor, which until this last week had appeared more than distant, 
had warmed into such confidence, and the frankly expressed “ hope 
to see him ” which no conventionally-trained girl would write, 
made the admirable but convent ionally-trained matron open her 
eyes. Of course she gave Philip Holroyd the message, however, as 
she read Catherine’s note at breakfast, and the gleam of pleasure 
that lit that grave man’s countenance was another surprise to one 
who was too much absorbed by her own cares to be a quick observer 
of others. 

Mrs. Courtland remained in her boudoir writing a long time that 
afternoon, but when she joined Catherine later it was cleai that she 
was suffering very much from her chest. Her breathing was op- 
pressed, and she coughed almost incessantly! The east wind had 
done its work. Catherine proposed her sending for the country 
doctor, but she laughed at the idea. She was accustomed to bad 
coughs — she knew how to treat herself — she had no faith in apoth- 
ecaries. 

“ 1 think this climate must be too cold for you at this season,” 
said Catherine. “ You should go to the south of France for the 
spring.” 

She was lying on the sofa, and turned her face away from Cath- 
erine, as she murmured in her low hoarse voice, 

“ Perhaps 1 shall.” 

The girl brought a stool close to the sofa. She took the dry 
feverish hand that lay close to hers, and said, 

“ Where is Mr. Courtland? Is he in England?” 

“ No, he is in Hamburg, or somewhere, on business— I don’t 
know where.” 

“ But you surely have his address, to forward his letters?” 

“ Oh! They are sent to the office. They always know Ids move- 
ments in the city.” I 

“ When do you expect him home?” 

“ 1 don’t know. He’ll send a telegram the day before he comes— 
he seldom writes, you know.” 

“ Whose fault is that? Perhaps not entirely his. Why do you 
not write and tell him that you are not well, and ask him to come 
home, and take you abroad somewhere?” 

She shook her lead. “ People must love each other very much 
to travel alone together. He would be horribly bored — and so 
should 1.” 

“ But he is your husband, the father of your children; all your 
serious interests in life are identical. If Mr. Courtland would be 
‘ bored,’ it must be because you do not try and make yourself 
pleasant to him, as you do to— other people.” 


128 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


“ He ought never to have married — or to have married his grand- 
mother,” she said, with irritation. 

‘‘ Now, listen to me, Mrs, Courtland — ” began Catherine. 

‘‘ Call me Lizzie, will you?” 

‘‘ Well, then, Lizzie. It seems to me you are willfully flinging 
away your chance of modified happiness— such happiness as comes 
from doing one’s duty in life — for what? Mr. Courtland may not 
be your ideal ot a husband, but he is very kind to you; he lets you 
do only too much what you like. He is clever and universally re- 
spected. In return for this you treat him coldly when he is at 
home, and never write to him when he is away. But there are 
others you are not cold to — others you correspond with — and whom 
you are always mentally comparing wdth your husband— you can’t 
deny it. What is to be the end ot all this? Have you thought of 
that?” 

It had grown dusk; and lamps had not yet been brought, but she 
turned her face toward Catherine, and the fire-light tell upon it. 
By the movement ot her lips, more than by the whisper itself, 
Catherine knew that she said, ” Yes, I have.” 

There w^as a silence tor a minute or two, interrupted only by Mrs, 
Courtland’s distressing cough. Then she sat up, and leaning on 
her elbow, took both Catherine’s hands in hers, 

” 1 am very unhappy— don’t be too hard on me, dear. My eyes 
are not shut to my danger. 1 know that 1 am being drawn toward 
a whirlpool that will drag me down- down- but 1 have no power 
to resist. You don’t know — 1 hope you never will- -what it is to be 
held so tight that you can no longer feel, nor reason, except through 
the will ot another!” 

What could Catherine say? The evil w^as far deeper-seated than 
even she had feared. Hoiv powerless w as all argument, all entreaty, 
in a case like this! There was nothing to wiiich she could appeal — 
neither religion, nor maternal instinct, nor any ingrained sense of 
moral obligation. 

Suddenly she bethought her of a weapon which w’as ready to her 
hand. 

” Feeling as you do, how could you urge me to marry Roger 
Davenpork the other day?” she asked. 

‘‘1 knew it would be far bett'jr for him,” she murmured in 
reply — ” and — and 1 saw a door -escape tor myself. 1 thought 
it might save us both.” - 

‘‘ And yet he spoke of marrying me as ‘ a painful necessity,’ did 
he not? He told you that his heart was still yours, 1 suppose, 
though he was forced to propose to me? 1 feel sure he said this.” 

Mrs. Courtland colored crimson. A fit of coughing came to her 
aid at this trying juncture; and the assent, which it w^as difficult to 
formulate, was thus left to be implied. 

“ Could you love any one you despised?” asked Catherine, 

‘‘ No. 1— I suppose not.” 

‘‘ Mr. Davenport is a despicable mau. 1 can prove it to you. 1 
was strongly attracted to him tor a short time — 1 confess it. 1 was 
foolish enough to believe that I might gain some influence over 
him. During that time, he alluded more than once to you— as a 
chain which he would willingly shake oft, but was too weak to do 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


129 

SO. He did not know me when he said that he trusted to my 
strength to snap this chain. That tore the veil from my eyes— that 
hrst showed me what a miserable creature he must be— to speak 
thus of one woman to another. Since then, every day has made 
me more and more thankful that my eyes were opened in time. 1 
know him now to be utterly base and dishonorable, and 1 pity from 
my heart the wretched woman— whoever she may be— who falls 
into his clutches!” 

The little creature on the sofa had buried her face in her hands, 
and was sobbing passionately. Catherine felt her advantage. She 
continued: 

‘‘ Within this last week he has committed — or attempted to com- 
mit— an act, not only despicable by all the laws of honor, but actu- 
ally amenable to the penal code. Perhaps it may never be known, 
and 1 refused to credit it myself, until it was proved. But 1 am 
glad— very glad now, to know it. It leaves me no room to doubt 
what manner of man Roger Davenport is. He has neither principle 
nor heart. Do not deceive yourself. He is not capable of love. 
You gratify his vanity, and — you have money. What you said 
5 msterday showed me that you had some perception of the truth. If 
you were dependent on your husband, Mr. Davenport would not try 
and compromise you. As it is, it you are divorced, he will marry a 
rich woman. Is not this horrible, Lizzie? To sacrifice everything, 
honor, seif -respect, your home, your children, everything, for such 
a man as this! Criminal as such love must always be, think how 
doubly degrading it is to bestow it on an object you know to be un- 
worthy — a man so corrupt and mercenary, that the only feeling he 
should inspire, it seems to me, is one of loathing. As long as it was 
possible to doubt, 1 doubted. As long as it was possible to 
make allowances for him — to plead excuse — to believe the best, 
in short, 1 tried to do so. Do you think it is wounded pride 
makes me so bitter now? Indeed, it is not. 1 have escaped a 
peril myself — and I am thankful. 1 want to save you from a yet 
greater one. You heard from him to-day, you have been writing to 
him this afternoon. Now all this must come to an end, Lizzie. 
Tell him there must be no more correspondence between you— no 
more correspondence, nor meetings. Promise me this, will you?” 

The convulsive sobbing had C' rsed; but a choked gurgling sound 
rose up from the suffering worn: -’s throat. She raised herself sud- 
denly; a stream of blood spurteu irom her mouth; and she fell for- 
ward on Catherine’s shoulder. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

The surgeon from C arrived that evening. He did not take 

a very serious view of Mrs. Courtland’s condition. All that Cath- 
erine had done he approved; rest in a horizontal position and the 
application of ice; beyond this, there was little to be ordered, but 
some sedative draughts. He urged the necessity of silence: it was 
essential that the patient should not talk, nor be excited. For the 
rest, he told Catherine, there was no cause for alarm. The bursting 
of some small vessel was such a common affair. It was a case 


130 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


which needed only the most ordinary precaution, to he cured, with‘ 
out leaving any ill effects behind. 

Nevertheless, Catherine sat up with her friend all that night. She 
was tolerably calm, perhaps from exhaustion, perhaps from the 
effect of the sedatives; she slept a good deal, and in the morning 
seemed certainly better. She would have talked, but Catherine 
authoritatively bade her be silent. Catherine did not go to church, 
and toward noon the cheerful man of medicine returned. He com- 
plimented her on her nursing, found his patient going on satisfac- 
torily, cracked a feeble little joke as he left the room, and said he 
should not pay a visit again till the following day. Catherine asked 
him whether she might safely leave Mrs. Courtland for two or three 
hours, and he gave &s full sanction to her doing so. 

A few hours later Catherine was sitting in Lady Davenport’s 
morning room between her two friends. Lady Davenport was near 
the fire, with her back to the light; Holioyd, as was his wont, stood 
on tlie hearth-rug, facing Catherine, who read aloud the letter slie 
had received the previous day. “And now,’’ she said, as she fin- 
ished and folded up the document, “ what ought 1 to do? Mr. 
Braggett I have only Known since 1 came to England. He is very 
clever, 1 am told, and certainly has displayed considerable acuteness, 
apparentl 3 % about my complicated affairs. But after all, he may be 
only making worK for himself, and running up law expenses with- 
out any necessity for them. 1 can’t leave the whole responsibility 
of this investigation in his hands. He fancies 1 am a very good 
woman of business: he is mistaken. 1 left Mr. Grogan to arrange 
all my affairs for me, when 1 came to England — I saw to nothing my- 
self ; which was wrong, for, of course, Mr. Grogan has his hands 
full, and—’’ 

“ If he was under such immense obligations to your father,” in- 
terrupted Holroyd, “ he should have looked to your interests before 
his own, 1 should have thought?” 

“ Perhaps he did; 1 can’t say: all lam sure of is that he has been 
taken in — that this is in no way his own fault. But, at any rate, 
the accounts and his explanation of them must be examined by some 
one besides Mr. Braggett. Do you think 1 might allow it to stand 
over till we move to London?” 

Catherine looked at Lady Davenport, and the lady gave an inter- 
rogative glance across the fire-place, without speaking. 

“ My opinion,” said Philip, decisively, “ is that you should be- 
come mistress of every detail in this business at once. Until you 
are so, you can not make up your mind whether it is advisable to 
send out some one to Melbourne immediately, or to wait for further 
explanation ; and with the reasonable probability of your rents being 
paid up. There should not be the loss of a day in taking action in 
such a case.” 

“My leaving Brookwood for some days is out of the question,” 
was Catherine’s quick rejoinder. “ The doctor will not allow that 
Mrs. Courtland’s state is one to justify any immediate alarm: but 
she is certainly very ill: any imprudence might place her life in 
danger, 1 feel sure. 1 have written, unknown to her, by this post 
to Mr. Courtland, urging his instant return. Unfortunately, he is 
abroad, and, as we have not his address, the letter must be sent to 


INTEODUCED TO SOCIETY. 131 

his offlce to be torwarded. All this will cause delay, and until he 
arrives, 1 certainly will not leave her.” 

” Have you no relation or friend in London whom you can trust 
— a man with a clear head and without any prejudice in the affair, 
to go into it with your lawyer?” asked Lady Davenport 

Catheriue shook her head. “ My uncle is wool-headed, and as 
obstinate as a pig, moreover. And friends 1 have none.” 

There was a moment's silence; Philip looked grave as ever; but 
perhaps a latent smile hovered somewhere about his eyes, when he 
said, slowly: 

“ There is no one, then, you feel you can trust implicitly, Miss 
Johnstone?” 

She was angry to feel that she wsis coloring. " If you were able 
and willing to undertake the trouble, 1 would trust you, Mr. Ilol- 
royd — and feel most grateful. But you have your duties here, and 
of course it is not to be thought of.” 

“ 1 accept the confidence in his name,” said Lady Davenport with 
a smile. ‘‘We shall all be very glad that he should go up to Lon- 
don for a day in your service. What say you, Mr. Holroyd?” 

‘‘ 1 will write to Mr. Braggett to night, and prepare him for my 
visit to-morrow. I’ll walk over to Brookwood on Tuesday, and 
tell you the result.” 

” How kind of you! Now my mind will be at rest, and I can 
dismiss the subject from my thoughts. It has worried me a good 
deal, not so much for the sake of the money, but because 1 feel that 
1 have neglected looking into my affairs, as my dear father would 
have expected me to do. He left tlieiu in an intricate state; with- 
out dividing accurately what were mortgages and debts due to the 
firm, and what were mine. At all events, 1 never clearly under- 
stood myself; and hence all this annoyance, I suppose. He thought 
1 was much cleverer than 1 am, and actually believed that 1 should 
continue to direct the business, with IVlr. Grogan as a partner. But 
1 was too glad to come into an arrangement with him, and give 
up the concern entirely into his hand. 1 have neither brains nor 
inclination for such work, which 1 don’t think is a woman’s prov- 
ince. Still, 1 reproach myself with leaving to others what 1 should 
have done myself. I knew 1 had plenty of money; 1 only thought 
of quitting Melbourne as soon as 1 could — and 1 should so hate to 
have to go back there!” 

She talked on for some time; replying now and then to a ques- 
tion from Lady Davenport (for Philip Holroyd asked none), and giv- 
ing her auditors a more definite view of her circumstances in rela- 
tion to Mr. Grogan, and to large Australian property of various 
kinds possessed by her lather, tiian they had yet had. It appeared 
that a certain portion only had been realized, and invested in the 
funds in her name. The remainder, and by far the more valuable 
part, consisted of houses, wharves, mortgages, and the house of busi- 
ness itself; her interest in which, it seerhed, she had compounded 
for a certain sum annually. 

At the end of an hour, she rose and bade Lady Davenport good- 

by. 

“ It tUi3 poor little woman gets worse, tell me what Lonaon doc- 


132 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


tor 1 should send for. 1 have not much confidence in that lively 
apothecary from C ” 

Lady Davenport named and gave the address of a famous physi- 
cian. 

“ After all,” she said kindly, “lam glad that you went to Brook- 
wood, as it has turned out.” 

“ Ah! If you knew. You can not be as glad as 1 am 1” 

Philip accompanied Catherine to the carriage; he said to her: 

“ As soon as the husband comes back, you will return here?” 

“ Y'es— it ] don’t think 1 am wanted. Good-by till Tuesday, IVlr. 
Holroyd. 1 wonder if you are so kind to me on the same principle 
that 1 am trying to be of use to poor Mrs. Court! and, not as a pleas- 
ure, but as a duty, almost a necessity? I should be sorry if you 
thought yourself obliged to help me. 1 have appealed to you so 
often.” 

“ Be good enough not to stop appealing, until you see that the 
duty is becoming irksome. Until then,” he added, in a low voice, 
“ believe if you will that. I, into whose life now but tew keen pleas- 
ures of action fall, know none like that of serving you. Do not 
thank me. To feel that 1 can be of use to you, to know that you 
turn to me for help, rather than to any one of those who have flat- 
tered you, is my reward — 1 ask no more.” 

He grasped her hand, and then turned away, as she stepped into 
the phaeton and drove oft with a flushed cheek and a beating heart. 
Surely she could not be mistaken? And yet she had never for a 
moment believed it possible he could care for her deeply and truly, 
as his words seemed to imply. That he had conquered his antipa- 
thy, as she had hers; that he was interested in her welfare, and had 
a cordial and growing regard for her as a friend; this she had known 
during the past fortnight; and, inasmuch as he was a man of few 
protestations, it did not need to be confirmed. But his usual reti- 
cence made this parting speech, as Catherine felt, doubly significant. 
To be loved for herself alone — and by such a man, one whom she 
could reverence and bow down to, morally and intellectually — this 
had been her first, and her highest ambition. Then came that weak 
and ignoble passage, to wdiich she could not look back without 
shame, w^hen a young Antinous of polished marble surface had be- 
witched her fancy, and she had succumbed to the lust of the e 3 ’es; 
ignorant, it might almost be said careless, of whether the beautifui 
statue she was ready to worship was that of a god or a devil. From 
that peril she had been saved; and perhaps mainly saved by con- 
tact with Philip Holroyd, and by a comparison betw'een the two 
men. She recognized now, that her gradually ripened knowledge 
of Philip— -the aw^e which he had first inspired melting into admira. 
tion and confidence, while yet retaining some tinge of the original 
sentiment— had more than anything tended to open her eyes as to 
the nature of Roger Davenport’s fascination. It was purely super- 
ficial ; even had he not proved to be the miserable creature he was, 
there was no massive material underlying the pleasurable structure 
to serve as foundation for enduring happiness. She had, happily 
for her, encountered another character, w^hose broad strong lines 
offered a complete opposition to the tortuous tracery she was vainly 
endeavoring to follow, to reconcile, and to excuse. Here all was 


INTKODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


133 

clear, vigorous, dependable. Her fine intelligence could not tail to 
regain its balance, when humanity and animalism, worth and un- 
worth, were brought face to face. 

It had been the work of a few days only ; and until this afternoon 
she had been unconscious, or, at most, only half-conscious of the 
revolution in her whole being. The things she had hungered after 
during the last two years, and some of which she was now enjoying, 
no longer seemed the ultimate good in existence. Before her eyes 
there opened a higher, and narrower, and yet more difficult avenue, 
at the end of which shone out the accomplished work of a wise and 
noble life. Philip Holroyd had taught her the relative value of many 
of tho common objects of ambition, and the dignity of faithfully 
discharging any duty, without self-assertion. I'o be loved by such 
a man, to be led by his firm hand, and to endow him with all her 
worldly possessions, seemed almost too great happiness to be pos- 
sible. She knew his pride — his contempt for a fortune-hunter. But 
surely, if he cared for her, he would not let her wealth be an insur- 
mountable obstacle between thorn? 

lam afraid 1 must confess that Catherine forgot Mrs. Courtland 
completely during her chive back to Brookwood. It w'^as not till she 
had thrown tho reins to the groom, and leaned lightly on the butler’s 
arm, as oho jumped to the ground, that her recollection, with a 
touch of remorse, returned, and she said hurriedly — 

“ How is Mrs. Courtland now?” 

“ I’m afraid she is not so well, miss.” 

Catherine ran up stairs, without waiting to hear more, and en- 
tered tho room softly. Two or three maids were gathered round the 
bed where tho little woman lay, white and still, with her large blue 
eyes distended. 'Ihore had been another attack of hemorrhage, 
caused, as Catherine felt sure, by the poor foolish creature’s disobe- 
dience of the doctor’s orders. She had called for pen and ink, and 
had insisted, in Catherine’s absence on writing a letter, which now 
lay on the table, ready to be jrosted. Catherine hardly required lo 
glance at the superscription, to know lo whom it was addressed. 
She felt too much grieved and alarmed to waste time in speculation 
as to what it contained. She whispered to one of the maids to find 
her a telegram-form ; then she sat down by the bed, and placed her 
warm hand upon the small bloodless one that lay upon the coverlid. 

Lizzie Courtland tried to speak, but Catherine stopped her mouth ; 
then, seeing the look of distress in the large blue eyes, she leaned 
down till her face was close to the white one on the pillow, and she 
caught the wmrds faintly whispered, 

” Don’t keep the letter. back— 1 have done— what you told me.” 

Catherine kissed her. ‘‘ Your mind v ill he happier now, Lizzie, 
and you must keep yourself as calm as possible; everything, you 
know, depends on that.” 

She wrote a telegram to the London physician, and then returned 
to watch by the bedside, where she remained throughout the night. 
The sufferer did not close her eyes; it was distressing to watch her 
feverish restlessness, to listen to her harrowing cough and her op- 
pressed breathing, and to find all re.medies powerless to relieve her. 
Catherine had little experience of illness; beyond following im- 
plicitly the QQuntry doctor’s directions^ she did nothing, waiting im- 


134 INTKODUCED TO SOCIETY. 

patiently for the first train from London on Monday, which she 
hoped would bring the physician. ^ , x . 

It was a lovely morning; and Catherine, as she sat at breakfast 
in the boudoir, which was just below, and led by a private staircase 
from Mrs. Courtland’s room— here her patient had at last, from 
sheer exhaustion, fallen asleep — felt a keen desire to breathe the 
fresh air, for five minutes, in the garden. She had not closed her 
eyes all night; her nerves needed some refreshment. She observed 
a plate-glass door which gave access to the terrace, and she was try- 
ing to open it as the butler entered the room. 

“ That door is locked, miss.” 

1 “ Can’t it be opened?” 

i ‘‘No, miss— there’s only two keys— it’s a Bramah lock. Mr. 
Courtland keeps one key and Mrs. Courlland the other.” 

‘‘ No matter— 1 can go round to the terrace by the front door ”— 
and she ran out without her hat, and inhaled a draught of invigo- 
rating frosty air, before returning to the sick-room. Mrs. Courtland 
woke up more feverish; and it seemed to Catherine that she was 
weaker; her voice was almost inaudible. 

An hour later the physician arrived. He was a straightforwai 1 
man, of clear insight, and with a conscientious avoidance of decep- 
tion, which caused him to be unpopular. After a careful examina- 
tion of his patient, he beckoned Catherine out of the room. 

“ 1 can catch the up train at noon. Miss Johnstone, and my re- 
maining here would be useless. 1 am sorry to say I can do nothing 
for your friend. It is congestion of the lungs, which might, per- 
haps, have been arrested a day or two ago, but she has caught cold 
upon cold, and it is now gone too far, 1 fear, for medical skill to be 
of any avail.” 

“ Do you mean that she is in immediate danger?” 

” She may live a few clays— but 1 doubt her lasting the week. 1 
never knew a more rapid case. You tell me she was driving out 
on Saturday, when she certainly ought to have been in her bed, poor 
lady. Where is Mr. Courtland?” 

“ He is abroad. 1 wrote to him yesterday, but unfortunately my 
letter had to be forwarded from London, as we don’t know his ad- 
dress.” 

‘‘ He should be telegraphed for at once, it you wish him to arrive 
in time to see his wife alive.” 

Catherine felt stunned. “ Is there no hope? Is there nothing to 
be done?” She asked these questions, as it seemed to her, mechan- 
ically. 

■ He chook his head. ” She can never recover. There is nothkig 
to be done, but to keep her tranquil— so that her end may be peace- 
ful. She is very restless. Has she anything on her mind? She 
gives me that impression. If so, she had better see a-clergymsn.” 

‘‘ 1 will ask her. 1 suppose she should be prepared for the great 
change. And er poor httle children— she must see them! It seems 
like a dream. 1 cannot realize it. She belonged so essentially to 
this world! Even since she has been ill, the idea of her dying at ones 
never occurred to me. The suddenness is very awful.” And Cather- 
ine sat down, and covered her face with her hands. 


iKTT^OBrOEn TO SOCIETY. 135 

That evening Catherine wrote, and sent the following note to 
Davenport by a groom. 

“ Dear Mr. Holroyd, — After all, 1 am obliged to write and ask 
you not to come here to-morow, for 1 could not see you. All n.y 
time and thoughts are painfully occupied; and will be so, until 
Mr. Com Hand’s return. Alas! the verdict has been pronounced. 
She is dying— it is only a question of days. You v/ill understand 
that 1 can have but one thought now — how to comfort and sustain 
this poor soul’s last struggle with mortality — to make the passage 
from this troubled life of hers to it better one more easy and hope- 
ful. 1 could havo no heart nor capacity to enter upon the business 
which you have liindly undertaken to examine in my behalf. It can 
not be so pressing, but that u will keep for a few days. 

“ Oh! Mr. Holroyd, believe me, my experience here— the knowl- 
edge 1 have bought with sorrowful sympalhy— will not bo thrown 
away. It one can not see a foolish little moth barn its wings in a 
candle without pain, the sight of a human being whose thoughtless 
butterfly career is suddenly brought to a close, and mainly b}" its 
own reckless folly, surely should read a solemn lesson to us all. 

“ You will think it strange, perhaps, that I feel so grieved lor 
this little creature, whom 1 have known so short a time, and with 
w'hom 1 had so few sympathies in common. But it is so; I am 
heartily grieved; more so, 1 think, than if her life had been a wise 
and blameless one. lo be cut off so suddenly, just as her e 3 ^es, poor 
soul ! were being opened to the truth — 

“lam interrupted. 

“ Yours most faithfully, 

“ CATHERmE JoiLCiSTONE.*’ 


CHAPTER XXV. 

The following day Catherine received a telegram from Berlin. 
Mr. Courtland hoped to be at home cither on Wednesday night or 
Thursday morning, lu was possible that he might not reach London 
in time to catch the last train to Brook on Wednesday, but the dog- 
cart was to be sent to the ctcition on the chance. 

And, meantime, the anxious, hopeless hours wore wearily away. 
C’atherine had not taken off her clothes tor three nights. iSlie had 
scarcely slept; and when Wednesday night arrived, the girl felt very 
tired. But still she woulc! not give in. A few more hours, at fur- 
thest, and the husband — the man whose place it was to watch beside 
that bed — he must be here. The maids were thoroughly worn out. 
She sent them aw^ay early in the evening to obtain some hours’ sledp; 
while she remained alone. At one o’clock tney were to be roused, 
and to relieve guard in the sick-room. 

It was past eleven o’clock on Wednesday night, and she sat watch- 
ing beside Mrs. Courtland’s bed. The house w^as silent; a couple of 
men waited up for their master, but mopt of the servants were gone 
to bed. Catherine looked worn and pale under the lamp light, with 
her eyes distended, fixed upon the bed; though now and again she 
turned them quickly to right or left, with “ a listening fear in her 


136 


IKTRODUrEB TO SOCIETY. 


regard,” at any distant sounds. Her nerves were strung to the utter- 
most. Would the husband arrive to-night? Would he be in time to 
see his wife and to forgive her? She was waiting anxiously to hear 
the carriage drive up the approach, on the chance ot its bringing 


Mr. Courtland. , . t. i ^ 

It struck twelve; and the last tram was due at Brook soon alter 
eleven. Unless he took a “ special,'’ then, it was clear he would 
not come to-night. A dog in the stable-yard barked once or twice; 
then all was still again. She shivered as she rose, and walked to the 
window, where the shutters were not closed, drew the heavy curiam 
aside and looked out. The moon, in the last quaiter, showed just 
above the elms, sending a faint uncertain light among the shrubs m 


the garden below. 

And now, at last, she heard the sound of wheels upon the gravel- 
drive tshe knew it was the dog-cart returned from the station. She 
could not distinguish it, but the sound told her it was going toward 
the stable-yard, and not approaching the hall-door. He had not 
come then! He would probably not come before to-morrow morn- 
ing! With a weary sigh of disappointment, she sat down before the 
fire. What a strange position was hers! Beside the death -bed of a 
woman whom she scarcely knew, and yet whose only friend she 
seemed to be! How little she had looked forward to this when she 
had seen her, for the first time, but a ftw weeks since! 

******* 


Catherine had been sitting for more than an hour in a large arm- 
chair between the fire-place and the heavily draped bed where Mrs. 
Courtland lay motionless. So motionless, that it was only when, 
bending over the white face on which the dark-lringed lids rested, 
one caught the feeble breath of life, that the watcher could feel sure 
that this calm was that of sleep and not of death. 

Twice or tin ! e in the hour the girl had so bent over the pillow 
and sat d ovn adain, thankful that the blessing of untroubled sleep 
had fallen upon the dying woman. Then, at last, she began to feel 
very weaiy. The excitement of suspense had hitherto sustained her, 
but flesh is weak. Mrs. Courtland slept on; there was nothing to be 
done; and, with no demand tor mental or physical exertion, it was 
not surprising that the girl fell into an uneasy doze, which not even 
her anxiety could ward off, though it prevented anything like 

sound sleep. ^ , 

Had she been awake a quarter of an hour later she would have 
been startled by the sound ot the small garden door just below the 
window being stealthily opened and shut, and a man’s footstep 
treading softly the winding stair that led to this bedroom. As it 
was, she only sprung to her feet when the handle of the door was 
tifrned, and a man— she could not distinguish whom in the dim 
light— slowly entered. She made a step forward, with the convic- 
tion that it was Mr. Courtland. Then she stopped short, rooted to 
the spot. 

She recognized Roger Davenport. 

He said nothing for nearly a minute; he, too, stood transfixed, 
while Catherine’s heart beai so fast in her dismay and bewilderment 
that she felt as it she were choking. 

“ How dare you force your way in here?” she murmured at last, 


137 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 

He hekl up a key. “ 1 did noi ;farce my way in.” 

” Do you not know — ” 

“ That she is ill? Yes. That is why 1 am here,” 

“ She is dying. Did you not get her letter? This is no place for 
you. ^ Mr. Courtland may be here at airy moment.” 

This was said in a rapid whisper. For nil reply the young man 
drew nearer the bed. The lace of her who lay tliere was shadowed 
by the curtain. Did he doubt the truth of Catherine’s words? He 
drew it aside, and the lamp-light fell upon the pdlow, where the 
small child-liko head reposed. He started back. On those wax-like 
features there was an untroubled peace which ho had never seen be- 
1 )re— a culm beyond that of sleep. 

Catherine, too, saw the change that had come there within the 
Ir.st half hour. She sprung forward with a low, inarticulate cry and 
bent over the pillow. Yes, it was indeed so. While she had been 
sleeping, the poor, weary spirit had passed away from its frail 
tenement without a struggle. 

She knelt down by the bed and burst into tears. 

” Thank Hod! she is at rest. Beyond the reach of temptation and 
sorrow nov/. ” 

He did not speak, he did not utter a sound; and when she rose 
she found that he was leaning against the wall, with his head be- 
r'jween his hands, and his back toward her. There was a convulsive 
movement of Ids shoulders once or twice. This was the only in- 
dication that the blow had, for the moment, at all events, shaken him 
deeply. 

Catherine did not break the silence again for some minutes. At 
length she said, in a low voice: 

“Mr. Davenport, you must go. You would not do her further 
injury? The misery you wrought here io perhaps only fully known 
to me. May God forgive you!” 

He lifted his head, fits face was white as marble. His brow, 
generally unruffled, was knit, and the wide-open blue eyes had a 
look akin to ferocity in them. He took the lamp which she handed 
to him, and passed out without a word. 

She heard his step descend the stair, the garden door unlocked 
and locked again. 

Then she knelt down by the bed and prayed. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

Catherine was by nature strong, and her nervous energy was 
great, but the scenes she had gone through during the last few days, 
and the fatigue she had endured, told upon her when the necessity 
for exertion was past. After Mr. Courtland’s return the following 
morning, she left Brookwood at once. On her arrival at Davenport, 
she went to her room, where Lady Davenport came to her, and she 
did not leave it that day or the next. 

But though unequal to the task of keeping up the ball of in- 
different talk with Sir Xorman, or R'ith Lady Retford, she wished 
strongly to see Philip Holroyd, and, indeed, felt it was right sho 
should do so, with as little delay as possible. 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY, 


138 

On the afternoon of the second day— il was Friday— she was alone 
in her own sitting-room, with her hands lying listlessly before her, 
when Lady Davenport entered. 

“ How is your head now, my dear?” 

“ Better, thank you. 1 am well enough, 1 think, to talk about 
business, and 1 feel 1 ought to see Mr. Holroyd. Would you ask 
him to come to me, by and by? Has he told you what he did on 
Monday?” 

‘‘Yes; but he shall tell his own story. 1 will bring him up here 
when he comes in. You will not come down to dinner, of course?” 

” No — it is very stupid— but 1 feel as it 1 could not sit by and 
listen to jokes and gossip, just yet — as if I should be obliged to run 
out of the room. 1 see her face, poor little thing ! as it was just be- 
fore she died, forever before me; when she turned to me and said, 
in her broken voice, ‘ 1 have been very wicked, dear — do you think 
1 can be forgiven?’ It has made me feel years older than 1 did 
when 1 went to Brookwood —witnessing that deatli-bed.” 

‘‘ 1 quite understand that, my dear; and there is no use in forcing 
yourself to come down-stairs, and take part in general conversation, 
until you feel better disposed to do so. At the same time, 1 Ihink 
you are right to see Mr. Holroyd, and hear what he has to tell you, 
as the matter is one of real impoi'tance; and it is as well now that 
your thoughts should be directed to some other subject than the 
melancholy one which has employed you for the last week. ” 

Lady Davenport returned toward dusk, bringing Philip Holroyd 
with her. 

Catherine did not attempt to rise. There was still a lassitude 
about her, veiy unlike her ordinary demeanor, yhe held out her 
hand in silence. He took it, and then, as usual, went and stood by 
the fire. It was a peculiarity that he rarely sat down, when he 
spoke on what interested him. Lady Davenport did not leave the 
room. She had debated in her own mind whether she should do so; 
inasmuch, however, as Catherine had originally consulted her on 
this matter, and that Philip had not only spoken openly to her since 
his return from London, but that they had deliberated long and 
anxiously together upon it, she decided to remain. There could be 
no indiscretion in this: it would deprive the interview of loo par- 
ticular a character, should Lady Rettord or the servants be minded 
to gossip; and it was possible she might be of some use to Catherine. 

‘‘ 1 went to London on Monday,” began Holroyd, ‘‘ and 1 spent a 
couple of hours with Mr. Braggett. 1 read all Mr. Grogan’s letters: 
1 examined all the accounts he has sent over; and, after a long con- 
versation with Mr. Braggett, 1 came to the conclusion that there 
was unquestionably something wrong— something beyond mere 
carelessness in the administration of your affairs. Here are a few 
plain facts and figures which 1 have written down, that you might 
more clearly understand the exact position of things.” 

He drew some papers from his pocket, and read one, a summary 
of the receipts, and Mr. Grogan’s explanation of the deficiencies, 
during the past six months: commenting on these statements in his 
terse and lucid manner as fie went along. 

But Catherine’s unconquerable loyalty was proof against all dam- 
aging deductions. AVhen he had done, she said quietly: 


INTR^DUCEt) TO SOCIETY. 


139 

“lam sure jMr. Grogan would make it all quite clear, if one could 
talk to him. He has so much more on his hands than he can possi- 
bly get through, that his letters are confused.” 

“Yes — they are confused,” returned Philip, gentl 3 '’; and Lady 
Davenport could not fail to observe the difference in his tone, from 
that in which he had spoken to her of Mr. Grogan’s “ confusion.” 
He was solicitous to spare Catherine as much pain as possible. The 
loss of the money would be as nothing to that warm, peuerous nat- 
ure, compared to the discovery of ingratitude and treachery, where 
she had placed unbounded trust. 

“ They are confused,” he continued, “ and that brings me to the 
question which you will have to consider, and decide upon, within 
the next few days. There is a steamer bound for Melbourne at the 
end of the montii. Some one should, certainly, go out, empowered 
by you to sift this complicated business thoroughly. It is impossi- 
ble to do so at a distance— 1 quite agree with Mr. Braggett on that 
point.” 

“ Whom am 1 to send? Did he suggest any one?” 

“ No. He said it must be some one whom you could implicitly 
trust. He need not be a lawyer — but he must be a good accountant 
— a man of judgment — shrewd, and not easily to be taken in.” 

“ 1 know no such person.” 

There was a pause. Lady Davenport coughed. Philip shifted 
the weight of his body from one foot to the other, and finally leaned 
back against the mantel- piece. Then he said quietly, as though he 
were making an every-day proposition, 

“ Will you trust me? Lady Davenport and 1 have had some con- 
versation on this subject. Malcolm, it is now decided, is to go to 
Germany ver}'^ soon: 1 am, therefore, free to be of use to you, if you 
will accept my services.” 

Catherine’s color rose and went again; but words did not come 
readily to her lips. It was Lady Davenport who said, 

“ 1 think you will be very fortunate, my dear, in having such an 
agent. You can not do better than accept Mr. Holroyd’s offer.” 

“ 1 appreciate it very much — but — ” 

Here she stopped short, and seemed confused. A hesitation so 
utterly opposed to her ordinary bearing was interpreted by Lady 
Davenport as evidence of Catherine’s physical weakness and unfit- 
ness to support the fatigue of a business discussion, and she was not 
surprised when the girl added, a moment later, 

“ It is very kind of you — so kind that 1 can not decide to accept 
your offer— at once. I must think over this — 1 will talk to you to- 
morrow, or next day. At present, 1 feel dazed — and — and unable 
to say anything.” 

Holroyd took one or two quick strides across the room. The effort 
to speak unconcernedly was apparent, as he said, a moment later, 

“ When your decision is made, send for me. But don’t look on 
it as any wonderful sacrifice on my part. I am giving up nothing 
in going out to Melbourne for a few months, and the sea- voyage 
and change will be very pleasant. 1 hope you’ll let me go for 
you.” 

He said no more, but shook her hand, and left the room quickly. 

"VVhen he was gone Catherine rose and approached Lady Dayen- 


140 . Introduced to society. 

port* It was evident she was greatly moved. The hand which she 
leaned upon the table trembled; and when she spoke, the voice was 
husky and unsteady. 

“ Tell me, you know him so well, tell me, is it more than chivalry 
that— that prompts Mr. Holroyd to make this offer? Am 1 deceiv- 
ing myself? Is it possible that he cares for me, do you think?” 

Lady Davenport was rarely taken aback. She had trained her- 
self to meet most emergencies with self-possession and readiness of 
rejoinder. But this unexpected demand taxed her candor and her 
loyalty to Holroyd alike severely. He had not made her his con- 
fidante, it was true, but during those long conversations they had 
had together in the past week it was impossible that her eyes should 
not have been opened to the real state of the man’s heart. The 
revelation distressed her. She did not for a moment believe that 
the girl who had shown such determination to acquire a social 
standing, who, generous and warm-hearted as she had proved her- 
self to be, leaned eagerly toward all that the world had to offer 
which was bright and gay, would ever consent to link her fate with 
that of a man who had none of those things which apparently she 
most prized. That Catherine valued his character, and liked his 
society, in a way— so much Lady Davenport now knew, but she also 
knew that the girl was not a flirt. It would distress her to encour- 
age, or appear to encourage, an attachment she could not return. 
Holroyd would jealously guard his secret: was she, his friend, justi- 
fied in betraying it? More especially if the betrayal should lead, as 
it very probably would, to Catherine’s rejection of his valuable aid. 

” 1 only feel certain,” she said at last,” that he very sincerely 
desires to help j^ou, and that, whatever his feelings may be, you will 
never be troubled by an avowal of them. He is too uoble;minded 
to think that rendering you this service will give him any special 
claim to your regard. Mr. Holroyd is the most disinterested man 1 
ever knew.” 

” Disinterested? You mean that he would never seek me for my 
money, and you doubt the possibility of his really caring for me?’' 

Brought to bay thus. Lady Davenport replied, 

” Do not fall into the error of so many women of fortune, my 
dear, and torture yourself by the belief that no one can love you for 
yourself alone. Mr. Holroyd takes a deep interest in you, 1 am sure; 
but no doubt he feels that between your position and his, there is 
such a gulf, that to try and win your affections would not be credita- 
ble to him. He offers to do you a great service, but it is one that 
will separate you for some time; you can therefore accept it con- 
scientiously, and without the fear of its fostering any delusion on his 
part.” 

Catherine sighed heavily, and Lady Davenport’s astonishment was 
great when the girl said, with a little hesitation, 

” Then, supposing he cared for me —my unfortunate riches would 
prove an insurmountable obstacle to his confessing it? Don’t you 
think 1 am to be pitied? Would it not be better for me to lose all 
my Melbourne properly, if by doing so 1 could gain the assurance 
that such a man loved me— that is, of course, if 1 cared tor him 
sufficiently to marry him?” 


IKTRODUCET) TO SOCTETY. 141 

Lady Davenport’s pale face was turned in blank wonderment on 
Catherine. She laid her hand gently on her arm, 

“ Have you well weighed the force of your words? Have you 
reflected on wiiat such a marriage implies? Mr. Holroyd’s thoughts, 
and habits of life, his aims and pleasures, are all opposed to yours, 
which you would have to renounce, for certainly he would not 
change his. He is seventeen years your senior, and he is a grave 
man, even for his years. You have been with us only three months, 
but during that time your inclination has led you to seek for all that 
is gay and amusing, young and light-hearted. Your vanity, per- 
haps, is flattered at the idea of winning the heart of so rare and noble 
a character. Do not deceive yourself; it would be cruel to both. 
]\larriage, my dear,” she added, taking the girl’s hand with a ten- 
derness unusual in her, “ is too solemn a responsibility to be under- 
taken for a mere fancy. Of course, if your feeling was really a 
deep and serious one, that had stood the test of time, it would be 
very different; 1 should look on your happiness as assured. But it 
is not so. Absence, and your mixing in London society will remove 
this impression, and therefore 1 still more strongly urge your ac- 
ceptance of Mr, Holroyd’s services.” 

“ Thank you, 1 will think over it,” said Catherine. ‘‘ Ko one can 
understand what 1 feel, it is useless to try and explain. And no 
one can decide, therefore, what 1 should do, but myself.” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

Two days passed, and Catherine did not come down-stairs, neither 
did she send for Philip Holroyd. 

Lady Davenport saw but little of him; they had no private inter- 
view. He was restless, preoccupied, almost surly, Malcolm thought. 
He compared him to Ulysses. His aunt said, tor her part, she 
thought he was more like Cerberus. As to that absurd young wom- 
an shutting herself up in this way, upstairs, because a horrid creat- 
ure whom she had known only a tew weeks was dead, she really 
had no patience with such affectation. And it was so very damag- 
ing to her. Really, Lady Davenport should tell her so. Bui Lady 
Davenport did not. She visited Catherine several times a day, but 
she made no eflfoit to bring hex down-stairs. Nor did they speak 
again upon the subject uppermost in the thoughts of one, at least, 
if not of both. 

On Sunday evening she announced that she should attend Mrs. 
Courtland’s funeral the following day. Lady Davenport tried gently 
to dissuade her from this unusual step, but the girl was resolute. 

‘‘ 1 am perfectly well now~perfectly well and strong— and 1 wish 
to follow that poor little woman to her last rest for many reasons. 1 
owe her a debt of gratitude, though you would not think it, and in 
her grave, to-morrow, 1 feel as if much of the folly of my past 
would be buried, and that my mind would become calmer and 
steadier to see how 1 ought to act.” 

After that. Lady Davenport said no more. 

The brougham came round at ten o’clock the next morning, and 
Catherine, looking pale in her black dress, but resolute and com- 


142 IKTROr>UCED TO SOCIETY. 

posed, stepped into it and drove off. Sir Norman’s own carriage 
followed. He had expressed his readiness to accompany Catherine, 
but she had declined the offer, and he had decided that to send his 
empty carriage was all that was necessary “ as a civility.” 

The funeral was not emotional. To all appearance a colder pro- 
cession, in which the pomp and pride of mourning did duty for 
natural feeling, had rarely wound its way up that village church- 
yard. But there was one, at least, to whom the ceremony spoke 
feelingly: one to whom the pathos of those farewell words, and the 
solemnity of the occasion, had a special significance. She joined 
most heartily in thanksgiving to God, that it had pleased Him ‘‘ to 
deliver this our sister out of the miseries of this sinful world;” the 
well-springs of healthy life had been poisoned for that poor soul; 
there was no saving refuge but this. And she, Catherine, had put 
her lips to that poison. The world had lured her; she had been 
saved, as by a miracle, from the baneful fascination of one whom she 
now saw in his true colors— one who would have dragged her down 
into the depths of a despair almost as fatal as that which had seized 
this unhappy victim of his. How empty of all true happiness 
seemed the life to which she had looked forward but a few weeks 
back! She thought of poor Lizzie Courtland in her ball-dress, sur- 
rounded by admirers. She thought of her own pleasurable wonder 
and gratification at her “ success. ” What had success done for 
either of them? There lay the young wife and mother, who had 
sacrificed duty, reputation, peace of mind, to this raging thirst for 
admiration and excitement, dead at the age of twenty-seven. And 
for herself had not these three months, or rather, the last few days, 
taught her that there was a possible happiness far beyond any that 
mere amusement could bestow, or social triumph achieve? Her 
heart had suddenly awoke: she now saw things as she had never 
seen them before, by reason of the love which fired and lit up her 
life. She had hesitated, she had drawn back, almost in anger with 
lierself, until the suspicion had grown into something like a joyous 
certaiuty, that Philip Holroyd cared for her. Lady Davenport’s 
manner, even more than her words, had strengthened this; and the 
last two days had been passed by Catherine in rigorous self-ques- 
tioning, as to how she should act at this juncture. 

It may seem strange that her resolution should have been affected 
by the ceremony at which she now assisted; but it is difficult to 
account for the workings of the human heart. When she listened 
to that beautiful service, and thought of the wasted young life 
wdiich, with a purifying love and guidance, might have been so 
different, two paths in her own future appeared distinctly before 
her: one, hard, unlovely, and beset with danger; the other leading 
up, up, into a higher and clearer atmosphere, and with but one ob- 
stacle to be surmounted in the foreground — pride. 

Upon her return home, she appeared at luncheon, for the first 
time. Sir Norman was out, but Lady Retford was present, and 
could not repress her curiosity (if, indeed, she made any effort to do 
so), to learn how many of the ” county families ” had sent their 
carriages to the funereal, and if any members of them had attended 
it in person. Catherine’s cold reply, that she had looked at no one, 
and was ignorant as to who had been present, elicited the remaili^ 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


143 


from Lady Retford afterward, that she was “ a dull young woman, 
after all, who will never make her way in the workl— she has no 
observation.” 

” 1 am going to the conservatory; will you come there presently?” 
Catherine said in a low voice to Philip, as they left the room. 

It was an old-fashioned orangery, rather than a conservatory, 
which had been neglected for years, and over the walls and roof of 
which the creepers had been allowed to spread and hang down in 
unpiuned luxuriance. There was a little niche presided over by a 
plaster statue of a fawn, under which stood a bench, which was a 
favorite seat of Catherine’s. On wet days she often brought a book 
here, and it was here she awaited Philip. She had only "been there 
a few minutes when his military step came ringing along the stone 
floor, and he stood before her. 

” Have you decided to let me help you?” he said at once, bending 
his clear, scrutinizing eyes upon her. ” You don’t know how anx- 
ious, how uneasy, 1 have been these two days past. But 1 resolved 
to wait, and abide your decision.” 

” Thank you for that. Please sit down. It makes it more diffi- 
cult for me to tell you what I want, if you stand. 1 like to hear you 
say you have been anxious — it gives me courage to speak — and it is 
hard to say what 1 want. It has taken me all this time to make up 
my mind that 1 will do so, at whatever cost.” 

“You know that 1 am your friend — I hope 1 have proved that,” 
he said in a low voice, “ and to a friend one should be able to speak 
openly, without fear of being misunderstood.” 

“ What 1 would say then is this. The service you wish to render 
me is one which I must regard in one of two ways — either as a pure 
matter of business — ” He winced, and make a quick movement 
with his hand, “—in which light 1 know you would never regard 
it— or as an obligation, which our relative positions do not justify 
my laying myself under. 1 have known you so short a time, scarce- 
ly three weeks, though we have lived under the same roof for three 
months. But you disliked me, at first, you know, as much as 1 did 
you. And now, what is your feeling?” she continued, hurriedly 
and with a heightened color. “You have been most kind, most 
helpful to me during these weeks; you have expressed an interest in 
— my welfare, which perhaps 1 have misunderstood. If so, 1 ask 
you to undeceive me now. If you are prompted by no stronger feel- 
ing than a chivalrous desire to befriend me, 1 must decline to accept 
this sacrifice.” 

A cloud passed over the man’s resolute face. 

“ Why do you ask me? What can my feelings signify to you? 
They shall never be thrust upon you; nor shall the world ever know 
them. It pleases me to do something for you— can’t you let it be 
so?” 

“No, I can not, 1 will not.” 

Listen to me. You spoke of our ‘ relative positions ’ just now. 
Are they not such as ought to enable me to ofier you my services 
without risk of misapprehension? You are a girl, beeinning life, 
full of curiositj^ enthusiasm, and. love of pleasure. The world is 
all before you, and will do its best to spoil you ; though in that, 1 
hope and believe, it will never succeed. You will meet men of 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


144 

talent, men of great station, who will lay these gifts at your feet. 
Among them your heart can scarcely fail to select one. Now w'hat 
am 1? A hard-working man of middle age, without distinction of 
any kind to bestow. The idea of my aspiring to be more than your 
friend would be preposterous. Circumstances have thrown us to- 
gether, and you have deeply interested me. Let a few months of 
my life be given to your service. That is all 1 ask.” 

She trembled, and it seemed as if the beating of her heart would 
choke her. 

“ What if 1 told you that the idea does not seem to me preposter- 
ous! Would your piide still stand in the way?” 

‘‘ It is not my pride, though, perhaps, 1 have too much of it,” he 
replied slowly.* ‘‘If you were some years older, if you had seen 
more of the world, it 1 felt a conviction that 1 could make you hap- 
py, my pride should not stand in my way; 1 should be indifferent 
what the world might say of me. But not so now. You know but 
little of me; you know but little of the ‘ society’ 5 ’^ou have sought so 
eagerly, you are ignorant of what it is you want in life; you have 
quick sensibilities, a generous nature. It would be despicable of 
me to work upon these, to profit by the confidence you have placed 
in me, by trying to make you believe that 1 am worthier of you in 
any way than heaps of younger men— men who are more suited to 
you in other respects. 1 am not so. 1 have knocked about the world, 
and have few illusions left. 1 am skeptical, not easily imposed upon. 
1 suffered once throuirh a woman, and 1 said I would never trust 
one again. When you came here, my life had, for so long, been that 
of a recluse, that 1 avoided you. 1 said to myself, you were a girl 
with whom 1 could have nothing in common, a rich young woman 
who had no other object or interest in life than to be introduced into 
fashionable society. Little by little, 1 learned my mistake. 1 
watched you narrowly; and 1 pitied you; then pity grew into 
deep interest, and interest into— well, no matter. Any man with 
eyes, and heart, and brains, would feel as 1 have done, and would 
say, as 1 do, ‘ Let me be your friend. Let me serve you. 1 irave 
no thought or hope beyond that.’ ” 

Catherineleaned her head upon her hand, and plucked at the black 
fringes of her dress, without raising her eyes. 

” 1 see what is in your mind,” she said at last, ” and 1 ought not 
to feel surprised. You think, when 1 ask you to rule my destiny 
(for am 1 not doing so?) that 1 probably do not know my own mind, 
or heart, now, a bit better than 1 did a lew weeks since, when 1 w^as 
under the spell of Roger Davenport’s fascination. You are wrong. 
What 1 felt for him had no strong root— it could not have lived. 
Though 1 was dazzled for a time, 1 saw his shallowness; but I tried 
to make excuses for him, tried to fancy that my influence would 
change and redeem his life. What folly! My struggle as to you has 
been all the other way. 1 have cordially disliued you; 1 have called 
you a bear, and all manner of names, and yet 1 never doubted your 
strength, and truth, and reliability. The proof of it was that 1 went 
to you in difficulty, and the conviction of what you are has grown 
on me every day since then. 1 am obstinate, you know that, for 1 
have not followed your advice, 'when 1 thought I saw my duty clear* 


IKTKODUCED TO SOCIETY. 


145 

ly l)cfore me. Well! my obstinacy has its good side. When 1 once 
make up my mind I never change. You may go to Melbourne, you 
may be absent for years; 1 shall never change now.” 

In his unselfish devotion to the girl for whom he was ready to lay 
down his life, the man had resolved to repress all manifestation of 
his passion; and he was a strong man, not easily moved from his 
purpose. But he would have been more than human had he resisted 
this appeal. He seized the hand that lay near his, and pressed it to 
his lips; but for a moment or two he could not speak. His thoughts 
were in a tumult, his scheme of action shattered, like some pale 
phantom of the mist before the rosy flood of sunrise. 

‘‘ If it indeed be so,” he said in a low voice — ” if, a year hence, 
when 1 return from Melbourne, you say what you say now, nothing 
shall part us, Catherine, milling. But, remember, you are free as 
air. You will see, in the interim, a great deal more of the world 
than you have yet done. You will be courted by many; and among 
them, it is hardly likely that there will not be one who will prove to 
you how mistaken you have been in fancying 1 was the man ‘ to 
rule your destiny’ — as you call it. Should this happen, as 1 foresee 
is probable, don’t let it pain you too much. Remember that I am 
prepared — that I expect nothing.'' 

” Very well,” she returned, with a smile that shone through the 
tears that now rained down her cheeks, ” 1 will see as much as 1 
can of the world while you are away, to prove to you that 1 am not 
making a choice with my eyes shut." 

'fhere is not much more to be told. 

Philip Holroyd sailed for INIelbourue, and Catherine went to Lon- 
don with the Davenports. For six months she followed the routine 
of a popular girl’s life, riding every morning with Sir Norman in 
the Row, where she was joined by two or three of her admirers; 
driving with Lady Davenport in the afternoon; dining out, or add- 
ing a unit to some crowd most nights. She did not lose her ca- 
pacity for general enjoyment; she did not appear absent, or even 
indifferent, in society. She talked much, and listened eagerly; she 
produced the effect of being entertained and contented. But there 
was no one whose image, when she was alone, rose up to displace, 
even for a moment, the recollection of him who had crossed the 
ocean in her service. 

By a secret compact with his honor, as he understood that term, 
he confined his letters almost wholly to details of the business which 
had taken him to Melbourne. It threatened to be protracted. As 
he had anticipated, Grogan proved to be a scoundrel, but so astute a 
one, that it would have been very difticult to adduce legal proof of 
his malpractices, even had Catherine been willing that he should be 
prosecuted. But this she positively forbade. She preferred losing 
a considerable amount to ruining tbe man whose fortune her father 
had made, and in whom he had placed implicit trust. Philip insist- 
ed, however, that if Grogan was to be permitted to retain his ill- 
gotten gains, it was at least necessary that Catherine should no longer 
have an interest in the business; and from it, in consequence, the 
very large sum which represented her share was withdrawn. Grogan 
dared not expostulate; he was shifty and plausible to the last; and it 


146 


INTRODUCED TO SOCIETY. 

needed a man of Holroyd’s penetration and resolute will to deal 
with him. But he was not to be deterred from indicting the pun- 
ishment which prudence and justice alike demanded: and that blow 
proved fatal to the house. In the spring of this year the firm of 
Grogan & Co. was proclaimed bankrupt. 

Philip was in Australia very nearly a year. There was a great 
deal to be done even after the investigation — which resulted in all 
the affairs being taken out of Grogan’s hands — was over. The ju- 
dicious reinvestment of capital, the sale of certain lands — which had 
hitherto been badly let, and still more badly paid for— legal techni- 
calities, the selection of agents, and precautionary measures against 
future corruption; by such anxious and laborious work, the months 
— those months which Catherine was giving apparently to amuse- 
ment and to nothing else— were fully fed for Holroyd. 

At the end of the season Lady Davenport was far from well, and 
Catherine, in pursuance of Dr. Hermann Weber’s advice, insisted 
on going to Homburg with her friend. She did not invite Sir Nor- 
man to accompany her— plenty of country houses were open to him 
during the autumn; and the ladies enjoyed a tour in Germany and 
Switzerland during three months in complete independence. They 
visited Malcolm at Dresden, and found him long-haired, and with a 
braided coat, smoking a china pipe, which bore the efQgy of Gret- 
chen. Catherine thought it a healthy sign. He was grown, and 
seemed to be working hard, and to be happy. His German senti- 
mentalism was more robust than his aesthetic affectation. On the 
whole, his mother was satisfied. 

On the other hand, a chance meeting with Roger at Saxon-les-Bains 
hung like a cloud over their homeward journey. He had been liv- 
ing abroad all these months, no one could exactly say how or where; 
writing to his mother from time to time, but giving as little infor- 
mation about himself and his concerns as possible. Here, at Saxon, 
his liaggard face, his disreputable associates, all told their tale. Lady 
Davenport and Catherine remained tiiere only one day: they could do 
no good, and to watch the deterioration in her son was agonizing to 
the poor mother. 

It was but a few weeks after their return to Davenport that the 
news of his sudden death reached them. The circumstances of it 
were never revealed — at least to Lady Davenport; but Lady Retford 
could not refrain from telling Catherine, in fUe strictest confidence, 
that it was whispered her nephew had destroyed himself. 

This happened at the beginning of November. In the letter Cath- 
erine wrote to Philip shortly after this, she said, 

“ 1 shall now, of course, be in retirement for the whole winter. 
No one will come to this house of mourning; and my own inclina- 
tions, as well as my affection for Lady Davenport, will prevent my 
leaving her, though 1 have many invitations. During the last nine 
months, however, 1 have led a sufficiently mundane life, 1 hope, to 
satisfy your scruples. During that time 1 find that 1 have been to 
forty- three dinner-parties, to upward of seventy drums and con- 
certs, and to more than twenty balls! I have visited two foreign 
capitals, and a fashionable watering-place. I have dined for three 
months at a table d’hOte. 1 have conversed with old men and young 


IKTROBUOED TO SOCIETY, 


147 

ones, diplomatists and politicians, military heroes, philanthropists, 
and literary notabilities. Many of them were tteTy civil to me. Some 
1 found bores; some amused me; some even interested me a little: 
none have 1 any strong desire to see again. Does this satisfy you? 
Is this sufficient probation? Must 1 confess that 1 count the days 
more eagerly than ever till your return? That 1 long with an in- 
tense longing to hear the deep voice that is like none other in my 
ears? To feel the touch of that large strong hand laid tenderly on 
mine once more? Come back! Do not let those horrid affairs keep 
you from me any longer. Oh! come back quickly!” 

And so it was, that in May last, they were married. 


THE END. 


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MRS. ALEXANDER’S WORKS. 

30 Her Dearest Foe 20 

36 The Wooing O’t 20 

46 The Heritage of Langdale 20 

370 Ralph Wilton’s Weird 10 

400 Which Shall it Be? 20 

532 Maid, Wife, or Widow 10 

1231 The Freres 20 

1259 Valerie’s Fate 10 

1391 Look Before You Leap 20 

1502 The Australian Aunt 10 

1595 The Admiral’s Ward 20 

1721 The Executor 20 

1934 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier 3Iaid 10 

WILLIAM BLACK’S WORKS. 

13 A Princess of Thule 20 

28 A Daughter of Heth 10 

47 In Silk Attire ^ . 10 

48 The Strange Adventures of * Phaeton; 10 

51 Kilmeny 10 


TEE SEASIDE LIBBATtY.— Ordinary Edition. 


53 The Monarch of Mincing Lane 10 

79 Madcap Violet (small type) 10 

604 Madcap Violet (large type) 20 

242 The Three Feathers 10 

390 The Marriage of Moira Fergus, and The Maid of Killeena. 10 

417 Macleod of Dare 20 

451 Lady Silverdale’s Sweetheart 10 

568 Green Pastures and Piccadilly 10 

816 White Wings: A Yachting Romance 10 

826 Oliver Goldsmith 10 

950 Sunrise: A Story of These Times 20 

1025 The Pupil of Aurelius 10 

1032 That Beautiful Wretch 10 

1161 The Four MacNicols 10 

1264 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P., in the Highlands 10 

1429 An Adventure in Thule. A Story for Young People 10 

1556 Shandon Bells 20 

1683 Yolande 20 

1893 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love Affairs and other Advent- 
ures 20 

MISS M. E. BRADDON’S WORKS. 

26 Aurora Floyd 20 

69 To the Bitter End 20 

89 The Levels of Arden 20 

95 Dead Men’s Shoes 20 

109 Eleanor’s Victory 20 

114 Darrell Markham 10 

140 The Lady Lisle 10 

171 Hostages to Fortune 20 

190 Henry Dunbar 20 

215 Birds of Prey 20 

235 An Open Verdict 20 

251 Lady Audley’s Secret 20 

254 The Octoroon 10 

260 Charlotte’s Inheritance 20 

287 Leighton Grange 10 

295 Lost for Love 20 

322 Dead-Sea Fruit 20 

459 The Doctor’s Wife 20 

469 Rupert Godwin 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Ordinary Edition. 


481 Vixen . 20 

482 The Cloven Foot 20 

500 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter 20 

519 Weavers and Weft 10 

525 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 20 

539 A Strange World 20 

550 Fenton’s Quest 20 

562 John Marchmont’s Legacy 20 

572 The Lady’s Mile 20 

579 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

581 Only a Woman (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 ' 

619 Taken at the Flood 20 

641 Only a Clod 20 

649 Publicans and Sinners 20 

656 George Caulfield’s Journey 10 

665 The Shadow in the Corner 10 

666 Bound to John Company; or, Robert Ainsleigh 20 

701 Barbara; or, Splendid Misery 20 

705 Put to the Test (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

734 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daughter. Part 1 20 

734 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daughter. Part II 20 

811 Dudley Carleon 10 

828 The Fatal Marriage * 10 

837 Just as I Am; or, A Living Lie 20 

942 Asphodel 20 

1154 The Mistletoe Bough 20 

1265 Mount Royal 20 

1469 Flower and Weed '. . . 10 

1553 The Golden Calf 20 

1638 A Hasty Marriage (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

1715 Phantom Fortune 20 

1736 Under the Red Flag 10 

1877 An Ishmaelitc 20 

1915 The Mistletoe Bough. Christmas, 1884 (Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon) 20 

CHARLOTTE, EMILY, AND ANNE BRONTE’S WORKS. 

8 Jane Eyre (in small type) . . 10 

396 Jane Eyre (in bold, handsome type) 20 

162 Shirley 20 

311 The Professor. — 10 


THE SEASIDE LIBRART.-^Ordinary Edition. 


329 Wuthering Heights 10 

438 Villette 20 

967 The Tenant of Wildfell Hall 20 

1098 Agnes Grey 20 

LUCY RANDALL COMFORT’S WORKS. 

495 Claire’s Love-Life 10 

552 Love at Saratoga 20 

672 Eve, The Factory Girl 20 

716 Black Bell 20 

854 .Corisande 20 

907 Three Sewing Girls 20 

1019 His First Love 20 

• 1133 Nina; or, The Mystery of Love 20 

1192 Vendetta; or, The Southern Heiress 20 

1254 Wild and Wilful 20 

1583 Elfrida; or, A Young Girl’s Love-Story 20 

1709 Love and Jealousy (illustrated) 20 

1810 Married for Money (illustrated ) 20 

1829 Only Mattie Garland 20 

1830 Lottie and Victorine ; or. Working their Own Way 20 

1834 Jewel, the Heiress. A Girl’s Love Story 20 

1861 Love at Long Branch; or, Inez'Merivale’s Fortunes 20 

WILKIE COLLINS’ WORKS. 

10 The Woman in White 20 

14 The Dead Secret 20 

22 Man and Wife 20 

32 The Queen of Hearts 20 

38 Antonina 20 

42 Hide-and-Seek 20 

76 The New Magdalen 10 

94 Tlie Law and The Lady '. 20 

180 Armadale 20 

191 My Lady’s Money 10 

225 The Two Destinies 10 

250 No Name 20 

286 After Dark 10 

409 The Haunted Hotel 10 

433 A Shocking Story ; 10 

487 A Rogue’s Uife, r 10 


THE SEASIDE LTBHART. — Ordinary Ediiwn. 


551 The Yellow Mask 10 

583 Fallen Leaves. 20 

654 Poor Miss Finch 20 

675 The Moonstone 20 

696 Jezebel’s Daughter 20 

713 The Captain’s Last Love 10 

721 Basil 20 

745 The Magic Spectacles 10 

905 Duel in Herne Wood 10 

928 Who Killed Zebedee? 10 

971 The Frozien Deep 10 

990 The Black Robe 20 

1164 Your Money or Your Life 10 

1544 Heart and Science. A Story of the Present Time 20 

1770 Love’s Random Shot.., 10 

1856 “I Say No” 20 

J. FENIMORE COOPER’S WORKS. 

222 Last of the Mohicans 20 

224 The Deerslayer 20 

226 The Pathfinder 20 

229 The Pioneers 20 

231 The Prairie 20 

233 The Pilot 20 

585 The Water Witch 20 

590 The Two Admirals 20 

615 The Red Rover 20 

761 Wing-and-Wing 20 

940 The Spy 20 

1066 The Wyandotte 20 

1257 Afloat and Ashore 20 

1262 Miles Wallingford (Sequel to “Afloat and Ashore”) 20 

1569 The Headsman; or, The Abbaye des Vignerons 20 

1605 The Monikins 20 

1661 The Heidenmauer; or, The Benedictines. A Legend of 

the Rhine 20 

1691 The Crater; or, Vulcan’s Peak. A Tale of the Pacific 20 

CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. 

20 The Old Curiosity Shop ^ 20 

100 A Tale of Two Cities 20 

102 Hard Times 10 


THE SEASIDE LIBEARY.— Ordinary Ediikin. 


118 Great Expectations 20 

187 David Copperfield 20 

200 Nicholas Nickleby. 20 

213 Barnaby Budge .20 

218 Dombey and Son • 20 

239 No Thoroughfare (Charles Dickens and Wilkie Collins) 10 

247 Martin Chuzzlewit 20 

272 The Cricket on the Hearth 10 

284 Oliver Twist 20 

289 A Christmas Carol 10 

297 The Haunted Man 10 

304 Little Dorrit 20 

308 The Chimes 10 

317 The Battle of Life. 10 

325 Our Mutual Friend 20 

337 Bleak House 20 

352 Pickwick Papers 20 

359 Somebody’s Luggage 10 

367 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings 10 

372 Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices 10 

375 Mugby Junction 10 

403 Tom Tiddler’s Ground 10 

498 The Uncommercial Traveler 20 

521 Master Humphrey’s Clock : 10 

625 Sketches by Boz .-. 20 

639 Sketches of Young Couples 10 

827 The Mudfog Papers, &c •. 10 

860 The Mystery of Edwin Drood 20 

900 Pictures From Italy 10 

1411 A Child’s History of England 20 

1464 The Picnic Papers 20 

1558 Three Detective Anecdotes, and Other Sketches 10 

WORKS BY THE AUTHOR OF “DORA THORNE.” 

449 More Bitter than Death 10 

618 Madolin’s Lover 20 

656 A Golden Dawn 10 

678 A Dead Heart 10 

718 Lord Lynne’s Choice; or. True Love Never Runs Smooth. 10 

746 Which Loved Him Best 20 

846 Dora Thorne 20 

921 At War with Herself 10 


THE SEASIDE LrBRART^—Oravm/ry EdictOfi. 


931 The Sin of a Lifetime 20 

1013 Lady Gwendoline’s Dream 10 

iOlS Wife in Name Only 20 

1044 Like No Other Love 10 

1060 A Woman’s War ; 10 

1072 Hilary’s Folly 10 

1074 A Queen Amongst Women 10 

1077 A Gilded Sin 10 

1081 A Bridge of Love 16 

1085 The Fatal Lilies 10 

1099 Wedded and Parted 10 

1107 A Bride From the Sea 10 

1110 A Rose in Thorns 10 

1115 The Shadow of a Sin 10 

1122 Redeemed by Love 10 

1126 The Story of a Wedding-Ring 10 

1127 Love’s Warfare 20 

1132 Repented at Leisure 20 

1179 From Gloom to Sunlight. 20 

1209 Hilda 20 

1218 A Golden Heart 20 

1266 Ingledew House 10 

1288 A Broken Wedding-Ring ..... 20 

1305 Love For a Day; or. Under the Lilacs 10 

1357 The Wife’s Secret 10 

1393 Two Kisses 10 

1460 Between Two Sins 10 

1640 The iUost of Her Love 20 

1664 Romance of a Black Veil 20 

1704 Her Mother’s Sin 20 

1761 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms 20 

1844 Fair but False, and The Heiress of Arne 10 

1883 Sunshine and Roses 20 

1906 In Cupid’s Net ...e ... . 19 


ALEXANDER DUMAS’ WORKS. 

144 The Twin Lieutenants 10 

151 The Russian Gipsy 10 

155 The Count of Monte- Cristo( Volume) ... 20 

160 The Black Tulip 10 

167 The Queen's Necklace - 30 


TEE SEASIDE LIBRARY,— Ordina/ry Editi&n. 


173 The Chevalier de Maison Rouge 20 

184 The Countess de Charny 20 

188 Nanon 10 

193 Joseph Balsamo; or, Memoirs of a Physician 20 

194 The Conspirators 10 

198 Isabel of Bavaria 10 

301 Catherine Blum 10 

333 Beau Tancrede; or, The Marriage Verdict (small type) 10 

997 Beau Tancrede; or. The Marriage Verdict (large type) 20 

228 The Regent’s Daughter 10 

244 The Three Guardsmen 20 

268 The Forty-five Guardsmen 20 

376 The Page of the Duke of Savoy 10 

278 Six Years Later; or, Taking the Bastile 20 

283 Twenty Years After 20 

298 Captain Paul 10 

306 Three Strong Men 10 

318 Ingenue 10 

331 Adventures of a Marquis. First half 20 

331 Adventures of a Marquis. Second half 20 

342 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. I. (small type) 10 

1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. I. (large type) 20 

1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. II. (large type) 30 

1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. III. (large type) 20 

1565 The Mohicans of Paris. Vol. IV. (large type) 20 

344 Ascanio 10 

608 The Watchmaker 20 

616 The Two Dianas 20 

623 Andree de Taverney 20 

664 Vicomte de Bragelonne(lst Series) 20 

664 Vicomte de Bragelonne (2d Series) 20 

664 Vicomte de Bragelonne (3d Series) 20 

664 Vicomte de Bragelonne (4th Series) 20 

688 Chicot, the Jester 20 

849 Doctor Basilius 20 

1452 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of “The 

Mohicans of Paris.” Vol. I 20 

1453 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of “The 

Mohicans of Paris.” Vol. II 20 

1452 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of “ The 

Muhicaus of Paris.” Vol. III. 30 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY:— ^Ordinary Edition. 


1453 Salvator: Being the continuation and conclusion of “ The 

Mohicans of Paris.” Vol. IV 20 

1453 Salvator: BMng the continuation and conclusion of “The 

Mohicans of Paris.” Vol. V 20 

1561 The Corsican Brothers 10 

1592 Marguerite de Valois. An Historical Romance 20 

F. DU BOISGOBEY'S WORKS. 

709 Old Age of Monsieur Lecoq. Parti 20 

709 Old Age of Monsieur Lecoq. Part II 20 

1063 The Severed Hand (La Main Coupee). 20 

1123 The Crime of the Opera House, First half 20 

1123 The Crime of the Opera House. Second half 20 

1143 The Golden Tress 20 

1225 The Mystery of an Omnibus 20 

1341 The Matapan Affair. First half 20 

1241 The Matapan Affair. Second half 20 

1307 The Robbery of the Orphans ; or, Jean Tourniol's Inherit- 
ance 20 

1356 The Golden Pig (Le Cochon d’Or). Part 1 20 

1356 The Golden Pig. Part II 20 

1433 His Great Revenge. First half 20 

1432 His Great Revenge. Second half 20 

1465 The Privateersman’s Legacy. First half 20 

1465 The Privateersman’s Legacy. Second half 20 

1481 The Ferry-boat (Le Bac) 20 

1534 Satan’s Coach (L’Equipage du Diable). First half 20 

1534 Satan’s Coach (L’Equipage du Diable). Second half 20 

1550 The Ace of Hearts (L’As de Coeur). First half 20 

1550 The Ace of Hearts (L’As de Coeur). Second half 30 

1602 Marie-Rose; or. The Mystery. First half 30 

1603 Marie-Rose; or. The Mj^stery. Second half 2t) 

1717 Sealed Lips 20 

1743 The Coral Pin. . . .^ 30 

1793 Chevalier Casse-Cou. First half 20 

1793 Chevalier Casse-Cou. Second half 20 

1799 The Steel Necklace 30 

1800 Bertha’s Secret. First half 30 

1800 Bertha’s Secret. Second half 20 

1841 Merindol 20 

1843 The Iron Mask. First half ^0 

^ 3 


TEE SEASIDE LIBBARY. — Ordinary Edition. 


1842 The Iron Mask. Second half 20 

1874 Piedouche, a French Detective 20 

1885 The Sculptor’s Daughter. First half 20 

1885 The Sculptor’s Daughter. Second half 20 

1886 Zenobie Capitaine. First half 20 

1886 Zenobie Capitaine. Second half 20 

1925 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. First half 20 

EMILE GABORIAU’S WORKS. 

408 File No. 113 20 

465 Monsieur Lecoq. First half t 20 

465 Monsieur Lecoq. Second half 20 

476 The Slaves of Paris. First half 20 

476 The Slaves of Paris. Second half 20 

490 Marriage at a Venture 10 

494 The Mystery of Orcival 20 

501 Other People’s Money 20 

509 Within an Inch of His Life 20 

515 The Widow Lerouge 20 

523 The Clique of Gold 20 

671 The Count’s Secret. Part 1 20 

671 The Count’s Secret. Part IT 20 

704 Captain ContanCp ^u; or, The Volunteers of 1792 10 

741 The Downward ^ h ; or, A House Built on Sand (La De- 

gringolade). Part I 20 

741 The Downward Path; or, A House Built on Sand (La De- 

gringolade). Part II 20 

758 The Little Old Man of the Batiguolles 10 

778 The Men of the Bureau 10 

789 Promises of Marriage 10 

813 The 13th Hussars 10 

834 A Thousand Francs Reward 10 

899 Max’s Marriage; or, The Vicomte’s Choice 10 

1184 The Marquise de Brinvilliers 20 

MARY CECIL HAY’S WORKS. 

8 The Arundel Motto 10 

407 The Arundel Motto (in large type) 20 

9 Old Myddelton’s Money 10 

427 Old Myddelton’s Money (in large type) 20 

17 Hidden Perils ^10 


THE SEASIDE LIDRAEY. — Ordinary Edition. 


484 Hidden Perils (in large type) 20 

23 The Squire’s Legacy 10 

516 The Squire’s Legacy (in large type) 20 

27 Vict^' nd Vanquished 20 

29 Nora’s Love Test 10 

421 Nora’s Love Test (in large type) 20 

275 A Shadow on the Threshold 10 

863 Reaping the Whirlwind 10 

384 Back to the Old Home 10 

415 A Dark Inheritance 10 

440 The Sorrow of a Secret, and Lady Carmichaers Will 10 

686 Brenda Yorke 10 

724 For Her Dear Sake 20 

852 Missing 10 

855 Dolf’s Big Brother 10 

930 In the Holidays, and The Name Cut on a Gate 10 

935 Under Life’s Key, and Other Stories 20 

972 Into the Shade, and Other Stories 20 

1011 My First Offer 10 

1014 Told in New England, and Other Tales 10 

1016 At the Seaside; or, A Sister’s Sacrifice 10 

1220 Dorothy’s Venture 20 

1221 Among the Ruins, and Other Stories. , 10 

1431 ‘ ‘ A Little Aversion ” ./f . , 10 

1549 Bid Me Discourse 10 

CHARLES LEVER’S WORKS. 

98 Harry Lorrequer 20 

132 Jack Hinton, the Guardsman 20 

137 A Rent in a Cloud 10 

146 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dragoon (Triple Number) 30 

152 Arthur O’Leary 20 

168 Con Cregan 20 

169 St. Patrick’s Eve 10 

174 Kate O’Donoghue 20 

257 That Boy of Norcott’s 10 

296 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” First half 20 

296 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” Second half 20 

319 Davenport Dunn. First half 20 

319 Davenport Dunn. Second half 20 

464 Gerald Fitzgerald 20 


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470 The Fortunes of Glencore 20 

529 Lord Kilgobbin. 20 

546 Maurice Tiernay. 20 

566 A Day’s Ride 20 

609 Barrington 20 

633 Sir Jasper Carew, Knight 20 

657 The Martins of Cro’ Martin. Part I 20 

657 The Martins of Cro’ Martin. Part II. 20 

822 Tony Butler 20 

872 Luttrell of Arran. Part I 20 

872 Luttrell of Arran. Part II 20 

951 Paul Gosslett’s Confessions 10 

965 One of Them. First half 20 

965 One of Them. Second half 20 

989 Sir Brook Fossbrooke. Part 1 20 

989 Sir Brook Fossbrooke. Part II 20 

1235 The Bramleighs of Bishop’s Folly 20 

1309 The Dodd Family Abroad. First half 20 

1309 The Dodd Family Abroad, Second half 20 

1342 Horace Templeton 20 

1394 Roland Cashel. First half 20 

1394 Roland Cashel. Second half 20 

1496 The Daltons; or, Three Roads in Life. First half 20 

1496 The Daltons; or, Three Roads in Life. Second half 20 

GEORGE MACDONALD’S WORKS. 

455 Paul Faber, Surgeon 20 

491 Sir Gibbie 20 

595 The Annals of a Quiet Neighborhood 20 

606 The Seaboard Parish 20 

627 Thomas Wingfold, Curate 20 

643 The Vicar’s Daughter 20 

668 David Elginbrod 20 

677 St. George and St. Michael 20 

790 Alec Forbes of Howglen 20 

887 Malcolm 20 

922 Mary Marston 20 

938 Guild Court. A London Story 20 

948 The Marquis of Lossie 20 

962 Robert Falconer 20 

1375 Castle Warlock: A Homely Romance 20 


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2.‘)') The Mystery. By Mrs. TTenry Wooil. 15 
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2.57 Beyond Recall. By Adtdiiie Seigeant 10 

2.5S Cousins. By B. B. Walford 20 

25'J The Bride of lMoiite-(h isto. A Sequel 
to “Tlie Count of IMonte-Cristu,” 

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200 Broiier Pride. By U. IM. Croker 10 

201 A Fair 5laid. By F. W. Uoliinson 20 

202 The Count of Moide-Cristo. Part I 

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203 An Ishniaelite. By i\Iiss IM. 1C. Braddoii 1.5 
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Fortune Dn Boisgol)>'y 10 

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fairs and Ollier Adventures. By 

William Bl.ack 15 

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'I’reasnre. By 31rs. Alex. McVeigh 
Miller ! 20 

209 Lancaster's Choice, By Mrs. Alex. 

McVeigh 5liller 20 

270 The Wandering .lew. I’artl. By Eu- 
gene Sue 20 

270 The Wandering .Jew. Part II. By . 

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271 The IMysteries of Paris. Part II. By 

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273 Love and .llirage; or. The W.ailing on 

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Biographical Sketch and Letters... 10 

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277 The Surgeon's Daughters. By Mrs. 

Ilenrv Wood. A 3Ian of Ilis Word, 

By W. E. Norris 10 

278 For Life and Love. By Alison 10 

279 Little Goldie. Mrs. Sumner Hayden 20 

280 Omnia Vatiitas, A Tale of Society. 

By 51 rs. Forrester 10 

281 Tlie Squire’s Legacy By Mary Cecil 

Ila.y 15 

282 Donal Gr.ant. B.v George ilTacDonald 15 

283 The Sin of .a T.ifel inie. By tlie author 

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2St Doris. Bv ’■ The Dncliess ” 10 

235 The Gambler’s Wife 20 


[continued on 


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280 Deldee; or.The Iron Hand. F. Warden 20 

287 At WarWith Iler.self. Bytheauthor 

of " Dora 'J'horiie ” 10 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight. By the au- 

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289 John Bull's Neighbor in Her True 

Light. Bj' a “ Brutal Saxon ” 10 

290 Nora’s Love Test. By Mary Cecil Ha.y 20 

291 Love’s AVarfare. By the author of 

“Dora Thorne” 10 

292 A Golden Hetirt. By the author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

293 The Sliadow of a Sin. Bj’ the author 

of ” Dora Thorne ” 10 

294 Hilda. B.y the author of “ Dora 

'J'horne” 10 

295 A Woman's AVar. By the author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

290 A Ro.se in 'I’horns. By the author 

of “ Dora /riiorne ” 10 

297 Hilary's l'’olly. By the author of 

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293 Mitchelhurst Place. Bj^ Margaret 

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299 The Fatal I.ilies, and A Bride from 

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300 A Gilded Sin, and A Briilge of Love. 

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301 Dark Days. By Hugh Conway 10 

302 The Blatchford Bequest. By Hugh 

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303 Ingledew House, and Jlore Bitter tlian 

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304 In Cupid’s Net. By the author cf 

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300 A fJoIden Dawn, and Love fora Daj’. 

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307 Two Kis.ses. and Like No Other Love. 

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.308 Beyond Pardon 20 

309 The Palhtinde''. By J. Fenimoie 

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311 Two Years Before the Mast. By R. 

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312 A AVeek in Killarney. By “The 

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313 The Lover’s Creed. By IMrs. Cashel 

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314 Peril. By .less ie Fothergill 20 

315 The Mistletoe Bongli. Edited by 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

316 Sworn to Silence; or, Aline Rodney’s 

Secret, By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh 
Miller 20 

317 By Mead and Stream. By Charles 

Gibbon 20 


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